Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis
by KnightFury
Summary: I should not be so very excited - I have, if one wishes to be technical, just committed a felony - but I simply cannot help myself. I have stolen - from a criminal, I hasten to add - the most exciting device that I have ever seen.
1. Theft

What a discovery! What a breakthrough! The possibilities are positively endless! I disembark from my new mode of transport and gallop into Inspector Lestrade's kitchen from the sitting room, leaping her long, leather-effect settee as I come to it. I have to show her this - it is the most remarkable thing that I have seen in two lifetimes!

"Beth!" I should not be so very excited - I have, if one wishes to be technical, just committed a felony - but I simply cannot help myself. I have stolen - from a criminal, I hasten to add - the most exciting device that I have ever seen.

"Where the zed have you been, Sherlock?" the charming New Scotland Yard Inspector demands to know, failing to heed my jubilant tone and without even bothering to turn her head. "I've been trying to call you for hours - even John 'n' Watson didn't know what you were up to."

"How can I be expected to divulge plans that I am yet to make?" I ask airily, with a shrug of my hands. "Really, my dear! Do at least try to make sense!"

She turns now, but only in order to impale me with one of her very best glares. Why is it that every woman on this Earth is capable of wounding with her eyes? Are they not supposed to be the fairer sex? But it does - only now - occur to me that the music that she has selected is warning enough as to her current mood, for (as is the case with me) she will choose certain pieces to improve or calm a negative emotion.

"Really, Holmes, I'm this close -" she brandishes her index finger and thumb, with a space of two inches between them, close to my face "- to really losing my zedding temper with you."

I attempt to appear contrite, but I suspect that I instead look upset, as I do not like it when those dearest to me swear or use aggressive gestures whilst talking to me.

"Let's try it again. Where the zed have you been?"

Trying out my new toy, naturally. It is not at all surprising that she was unable to reach my portable telephone - I was in a completely different place! I shrug nonchalantly. "Travelling."

"You mean driving. Why the zed did you have to turn your zedding phone off?"

I slam my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. This is not a matter easily explained.

"Oh, sorry if I'm giving you a headache," says she sarcastically. "I didn't mean to get upset - I only thought Moriarty had got to you 'n' hurt you, or something."

I raise a finger. "Please, my dear, give me a moment. I have much to tell you and I know not quite how to do so."

Her face slowly drains of colour. "What's wrong? Are you sick? In trouble?"

I want to laugh, but I have the sense to refrain. "Really! When have I ever fretted over being in trouble - or even danger? No, it is nothing of that sort. Perhaps I should show you, as opposed to attempting to explain. Would you come with me?"

"I was just gonna heat up a microwave meal. Give me a half hour to eat?"

I shrug, though I am dying with impatience. "As you wish."

"Are you hungry?"

No. I am all nervous energy and excitement - I cannot possibly feel hungry.

"Forget it. You can't stay still - 'course you aren't hungry. Want a cup o' tea?"

"Yes please." Tea is an entirely different matter.

We sit together at the counter which she has always referred to as her breakfast bar; she with coffee and instant dinner (which smells like curry) and I with a cup of tea. I am a little calmer now, but still I feel quite unable to eat.

"So... What 've you been doing?"

I fidget in my seat. "I... uh... I paid Moriarty a visit. He has been uncharacteristically quiet, of late, and I thought -"

"You told me that we shouldn't go after the guy alone. Zed, Sherlock! After the fuss you made..."

"That," I interrupt softly, "was when you confronted him alone with a pair of handcuffs. I have done nothing of the sort."

"So what did you do? Invite yourself to dinner?"

I drum my fingers upon the counter top. "No," I respond, with all of the patience that I am able to muster. "I simply watched him - and his little team of scientists - work. He had not the slightest inkling that I was present."

She frowns at me for a long moment. "This doesn't explain your excitement."

"I am coming to that," I respond with raised finger. "Lestrade, Moriarty's little team of scientists have built him a means to rid himself of me and anyone else that might stand in his way..."

She pales and slowly pushes aside her half-eaten meal. "A new weapon. You're excited about a new weapon. Zed! Are you crazy? Your oldest enemy has just found a new way to kill you and you're happy as zed about it."

I chuckle and then throw my head back laughing.

"Sherlock Holmes, I want the whole story - Grayson might buy the 'I've finally gone completely nuts' routine, but I know you too well. What's going on? What aren't you telling me?"

There is no need to insult my good humour! "I am laughing because you immediately thought of a gun or something of that sort. I did not say that he meant to murder me - I said that he means to be rid of me."

"There's a difference?"

"In this instance, yes. What Moriarty had, when I called upon him without his knowledge, was a contraption that he called his 'Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis'."

She wrinkles her nose. "If Watson were here, he'd give me the translation in a heartbeat. Sherlock, you know I don't even speak much French. What's that? Italian? Greek?"

"It is Latin. Furthermore, Watson would most likely give you a very loose translation and ruin everything," I respond with an annoyed twitch of my nose. "Really! Why would you want to be told what it is, when I could show you?"


	2. A New World

After a very long half of an hour, I am standing in the centre of Lestrade's sitting room, with her at my side. Before us is the Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis, which looks for all the world like a small flying saucer. I know not quite how it works, but that it does cannot be denied as I have tested it myself.

"You went off for a joy ride," my fiancée chastises, "and then you thought you'd ditch it in my lounge. If this thing's wrecked the carpet..."

I sniff. "You sound like Mrs. Hudson. For God's sake, Beth - I have just... 'ditched', as you so quaintly worded it, an adventure in your very lap and here you stand complaining. How dare you!"

"Zed! I'm sorry. OK, so what does this thing do?" She does not sound very sorry to me, but at least she would appear to be interested.

I take her by the hand and drag her inside of the mysterious disc. The control area is not very spacious, but there is enough room for the both of us - and for an extra passenger or two; I have already noticed some additional seating at either side of the control panel. Our compudroid companion might prove to be a little too heavy, however.

Without a word to my fiancée, I twiddle with the controls and rub my hands together. I have decided just where we should go to first.

"What 're you planning? Sherlock?"

I chuckle. "Wait and see. You should like this."

She grimaces and grips the control panel as the engine starts. Surely she is not scared! After all, she will try numerous stunts and tricks in her horrid flying car.

The journey is over almost as soon as it has began. The controls flash, our destination shows on the monitor before me, there is a whirring and slight vibration and then all is still and quiet. We have arrived!

I take the Yarder by the hand and drag her outside, having urged her to remain quiet and to crouch as I know not quite what to expect.

"Zed!" gasps Lestrade. "Sherlock!"

There before us are a herd (I believe that that is the correct term) of dinosaurs, foraging for food.

"They are herbivores - plant eaters," I murmur, close to her ear. "Fear not - they are not a threat."

She glares at me. "Take me home. Now."

"Are you not fascinated?" I enquire, astonished. How can she not be? I have no doubt that Watson would be enthralled!

"I'll remember to be fascinated next time I go to a museum, or the zoo," she retorts. "Zed! Of all the things to do without warning me! What if we'd walked straight out in front of T-Rex?"

"The terrible band?" I have heard of them - the radio has played a song or two by them - and I do not care for the music. "They are not prehistoric, surely?"

She narrows her eyes at me. "Tyrannosaurus Rex - the dinosaur, for zed's sake!"

Oh! "Well, why must you truncate and abbreviate everything? How the deuce am I supposed to know what you are talking about?"

"Well, now you know why I want to get the zed home, can we go?"

I gesture towards the Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis dismissively. "Wait for me in safety, if you wish. I should at least like a better look."

"They've got mean-looking spiky club things, on their tails," says she. "I know they won't eat us, but they look dangerous enough."

"Oh, really! We look nothing like predators," I retort. "They are unlikely to attack - provided we remain calm, I see no reason for them to view us as anything other than a curiosity."

She is far from convinced, but follows me all the same.

As I near the gigantic creatures, some of my bravado deserts me. Lestrade is quite right - they are well equipped to see off any unwanted attention.

"OK, we got closer. Wanna go back, now?" my fiancée asks, from a short distance behind me.

I grumble in response. "Can we not remain where we are, for a moment? I want to remember these creatures."

"Well, I just don't wanna get flattened by... Zed! Sherlock... I think I've got a huge wasp after me..."

"I did not know that they bother..." the words die upon my lips as I turn my head to see for myself.

I am most certainly not worried about wasps, but this is not an English wasp - or even a larger European variety. The insect menacing my fiancée has a head the size of my fist and a sting the width of my little finger.

"I wanna go home."

I take her hand in mine. "Breathe slowly and gently; remain calm. We are going to very slowly make our way back to the Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis."

"OK."

The evil insect decides that it is bored of my fiancée and decides to circle my head instead as we slowly retrace our steps. The noise is loud and sounds - to my overactive imagination - terribly angry. I want to make a run for it, despite my earlier advice and the knowledge that a sudden burst of speed is not likely to do any good.

"I'm scared," Beth admits quietly.

That confession is not at all helpful. If one of us is to panic, we are both likely to be stung to death!

"Keep calm, my dear," I murmur in return. "Not much further, now."

"How can you be so zedding calm?"

Oh, good God! It has alighted, as delicately as a lead weight with wings, upon my back. I want to shout, to shake it off - to do something! I know that wasps are not like bees, being much more aggressive, and I want this thing to vanish without incident.

"Practice. The important thing is to at least appear to be calm. Insects only attack if they feel threatened." But wasps can be deucedly temperamental. She need not know that.

We have almost reached the safety of the Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis and the hateful creature upon my back is moving - I fervently hope that the thing is about to fly away. It is! I can hear its wings.

A sudden, stabbing pain above my left hip informs me that something has gone awry and I swallow a cry of shock and pain. Perhaps I jolted the thing too much, perhaps I was breathing too heavily... Perhaps wasps are simply vindictive.

"It's gone," Lestrade whispers with a sigh of relief. "Come on, let's get outta here."

I nod shakily and endeavour to go on. The poison is spreading and I feel dizzy, nauseous. My legs are struggling to carry me.

"Ah! So you were scared! Well, it's over now; don't go fainting on me now."

There is blood oozing from the wound at my back, which feels like a stab wound from a dagger, and my lungs feel as if they are being squeezed. Something suddenly erupts from my throat, but I know not whether it is vomit or something else.

"Sherlock? What is it? What's wrong?"

I can barely hear my fiancée beside me and am only dimly aware of her touch as she takes my arm.

"Sherlock! Can you hear me? Hold on, OK? Just hold on. We'll get you to Sir Evan Hargreaves."

Somehow, with much assistance from the inspector, I manage to stumble - or, perhaps, crawl - inside of the craft which brought us here before I collapse. I feel as if my throat is closing over and it is becoming increasingly difficult for me to remain calm.

I am dimly aware of Lestrade's hands rolling me onto my side. I fear that it may be a wasted effort, for I can barely breathe, but I shall endeavour to hold on.

"You're the most stubborn guy I know," I hear the Yarder say, her voice sounding oh so far away. "If you can't come through this, nobody can. Just hang on, OK?"

For all that I may want to survive, I know that my chances are not good. I can scarcely breathe, I am in an indescribable amount of pain and, as I begin to curl in on myself, all that I can think of are wasps - wasps killing my bees, wasps crawling over a picnic lunch which no longer seems at all appetising and, finally, a dead, dried up wasp in a windowsill, curled in a ball much like mine. Then, I can think of or feel nothing at all.


	3. Theories of Time Travel

I come to my senses with a choke and a gasp, sitting up before I even know what it is that I am doing, to find myself on the floor of Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis, just inside of the door. I am no longer in pain, but I am feeling somewhat disorientated. Have I been unconscious? Dead? I suppress a shiver at the thought.

"Hang on, Sherlock. We'll get you to Sir Evan, OK?"

Lestrade is staring down at me with concern from the seat at the controls.

"Do you know how to control this machine?"

She nods. "Didn't take me long to figure it out. We're here, now. Can you walk?"

I pick myself up slowly, gingerly, feeling much the way that I did when I first awoke in this century - confused, with the disconcerting suspicion that I really should not still be amongst the living.

"Here, let me help," says she, as she crouches beside me. "What d'you feel like? D'you still need to throw up?"

"No. I actually feel all right."

She raises her eyebrows. "Sure? You're pretty pale and you're shaking. Talk to me - what d'you feel like?"

Odd, if I am perfectly honest. I lean against the back of one of the chairs while my head slowly rights itself.

"Your jacket isn't ripped, any more. Take it off?"

With a frown, I remove my coat and we then examine the garment carefully - it is impossible! There is not a mark on it - no blood, no tear, nothing - it is as if I had never been attacked at all.

"Lemme see your back," the Yarder then requests. "Strip to the waist."

"What?" I yelp in response, as I attempt to evade her reaching hands. "No! Why? It is not appropriate for a gentleman to bear his flesh."

She snorts. "I'm not asking you to show me anything - I just wanna see the place you were stung. Don't be such a baby, Sherlock!"

I feel my face flush with embarrassment. "I am not being childish - a gentleman of my era would simply not uncover his chest in polite company."

"Zed! You're a lot more sensitive than I expect, ain't ya? Look, just turn your back and pull the back of your shirt up, OK? I just wanna see where you were stung."

I do as directed, though I still feel that I am behaving like a cad.

The Yarder runs a finger over the area, causing me to flinch. "Not a scratch! No swelling, no nothing! That's amazing!"

"Beth," I groan with a shiver as she continues to examine me, "I should like to tidy myself up, now." This unwanted attention is causing an even less welcome reaction and I should like very much to escape for a moment.

She rests her hand at my shoulder and leans forward to study my face. "You OK? You're shaking more now than you were when you came to!"

I grimace under her gaze.

"You need a bathroom, don't you? You always shut right up, when you really have to go."

Not particularly, but it would be nice to have a door between us, for a moment or two.

"Why don't you just say?" she is asking. "One day, it'll get you in trouble - even you can't wait forever! You need to learn to say something. Go on, tidy yourself up and we'll find somewhere for you to go."

I tuck in my shirt and pull on my under and overcoats without meeting her gaze, while my ears become increasingly hot.

"You're sure you feel OK, are you?"

I nod while still refusing to meet her gaze. I suspect that she believes that I am embarrassed for entirely the wrong reason.

The Yarder escorts me to a staff lavatory as if I were a small child and then insists upon waiting outside. I do wish that she would leave me be.

I freshen up, washing my hands and face and taking the time to calm myself and to put myself in order. I have not felt like this since we were first courting! I had thought that I was quite over this, now. Why do I suddenly want to be close to her, to kiss, to hold? Is it due to the near death experience, or simply a reaction to the attention that I received from her, while I was in a state of undress?

"Feel better?" the irksome woman asks of me, when I step back out, into the corridor. "You looked like you really needed it."

I simply admonish her with a glare. She knows how I feel about such talk - particularly in public areas, where we could easily be overheard.

"What? Even the King has to pee, Sherlock."

I am not going to answer her until she changes the subject. Briar learns quickly enough, when I ignore him following a misdemeanour - if I am very lucky, the same might apply to young women.

She shrugs her shoulders. "I know you seem to be OK now, but I think you better see Sir Evan Hargreaves anyway. I wanna know that you aren't gonna collapse, or something."

I shrug in return. "If you insist. I do feel as well as can be expected, however."

"Yeah, right. What does 'as well as can be expected' mean, exactly?"

I smirk at her. "It means that I am feeling 'OK', naturally. Well, shall we?"

"Huh."

She takes the arm that I offer to her and we set off in search of Sir Evan together.

When we find the gentleman, Sir Evan Hargreaves is not very pleased with us - that is, me. How could I be so stupid, that I could decide to steal a time machine without even considering the danger?

"What danger?" I enquire, with a shrug of my hands. "How could I possibly imagine that I might be stung by a gigantic wasp? I am not clairvoyant! Besides, I knew nothing of the existence of oversized insects and bugs during the days of the dinosaurs."

He pierces me with a glare that reminds me of my old chemistry professor. I wonder whether he might be one of his descendants.

"Mr. Holmes, there are things more dangerous than deadly creatures that you should consider. Have you tried to meet yourself?"

"I am not narcissistic. Why do you ask?"

Beth snorts under her breath. "You've got an ego. Maybe you might've thought about it, given enough time."

"Thank you, my dear." What a charming young lady she is!

"That's quite enough bickering, I should think," interrupts Sir Evan. "You must never attempt to meet yourself - there is a theory that it could rip the entire universe apart."

How interesting! I wonder why.

"No, Sherlock," Lestrade snaps, wagging her finger in my face. "No. That definitely isn't an invitation to go ahead and try it!"

Hargreaves breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness one of you has the good sense to listen to me!"

"OK, so meeting ourselves is out," Lestrade hastens to interject, interrupting my insulted response. "Got any more advice for us?"

"Yes. Avoid your own timelines, to begin with - I'm not sure what might happen to you, should you become hurt or unwell, whilst exploring your own timeline."

What the deuce is he talking about? "What do you mean?"

He takes up a piece of paper and draws three lines, labelling one 'SHD', the second 'SH' and the final one 'IL'.

"You, Mr. Holmes, are going to be awkward, as you have two timelines - here is your first one, beginning with your birth and ending with your death. This second one is your second life. Now, if you deviate from your current timeline..."

"When we deviated from our timelines, we continued to live."

He nods and meets my gaze. "Yes, of course. But, anything that you experience outside of your own timeline can't be attributed to your timeline when you resume, as if you had never left. That's impossible."

That would explain my remarkable recovery, as well as the puzzle of the unmarked clothing. I nod and steeple my hands. "I see..."

"Which means that you must always return to your present - that's vitally important."

I nod slowly. "Must I avoid both of my timelines? What might happen to me? Surely time could not become confused - it does not think, does it?"

"It is possible that your lines could become crossed or tangled, with adverse affects."

But this is just a theory, is it not?

"Sherlock," my fiancée rests a hand upon my shoulder. "Let's not go testing theories, OK? Sir Evan's just told us what we should avoid doing - I think we should listen."

I shrug. "Very well. Then what should we do, while the theories are tried and tested in the safety of a lab?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "I always wanted to go back to 1984."

Why? "1984. An interesting choice. Do you have an exact date and place in mind?"

"Naturally! Come on, my dear Holmes. I'll drive."

I hope that she can drive a time machine better than she can drive her police car! What have I got myself into?


	4. A Green-Eyed Monster

"How could you? How could you take me back there without some form of warning, expecting me to... to be nice to that... that... He embraced you, for God's sake! Did you know that he would? I should think that you hoped that he would! How could you?"

Lestrade follows me from Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis and into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street sullenly. "Are you done shrieking? I'm not gonna talk to you until you calm down."

"'Calm down'!" I snarl back at her. "I have just been made to watch my fiancée be unfaithful and you expect me to be calm! Are you insane?"

"I wasn't unfaithful, for zed's sake! Zed! He was just being friendly. I'm sorry, I forgot that he used to greet fans like that, but there was no need for you to turn into a green-eyed monster. What d'you think he must've thought? Zed! No wonder he used to say he wouldn't cross the road to meet you - you were zedding horrible to the poor guy!"

I had been pacing before the fire and then to the window and back, but I now stop in my stride and whirl to face her.

"You care more about him and his feelings than you do mine!"

"'Course I don't!" she shouts back at me. "I love you. You should know that."

"What the deuce have I walked into?" Watson's voice demands to know, from the door. "John warned me that you appear to be having some form of lovers' quarrel, but I never would have believed him. What has happened?"

I run my hands through my hair and then point an accusing finger at my so-called wife-to-be, before removing myself to our bathroom, situated adjacent to Watson's room. I have to shut myself away! I shall take a bath. "Ask her!"

Behind me, I hear Lestrade begin to cry. In all honesty, I feel quite near to the brink myself, but I feel that I have a right.

The bathwater - with additional bubbles - is soothing and warm. With a sigh, I permit it to relax me, washing away the tension that has been building within me - perhaps it will untie the horrid knots that are within my stomach.

For how long I have been bathing I know not, but the water is beginning to cool when I hear the vestibule and front doors slam. There follows a tap at the bathroom door.

"Holmes?" Watson calls, with another light tap to the door. "Might I come in?"

As a doctor, he has been forced to see me in varying degrees of undress - in our own era rather the more frequently than this - but, even with the bubbles concealing most of me, I would rather not permit him to enter, for there is rather more than my body that might be exposed to him at this moment.

"The door is locked, but I shall not be long. Ten minutes?"

I hear him sigh in exasperation. "I shall have a fire lit in the sitting room; come straight down - I would not want for you to catch cold."

What would it matter if I did?

"Please, Holmes, we need to talk."

I agree to come straight down to the sitting room, not that I have much choice - I forgot to bring a change of clothing with me, when I came upstairs.

Ten minutes later, true to my word, I return to the sitting room, swathed in bath towels and shivering slightly. Hastily, I take to my chair beside the lit hearth.

My Boswell adds a couple of rugs to the towels and stokes up the fire. "Are you warm enough?" he asks of me. "Would you like some brandy, or perhaps a hot toddy?"

I nod and ask for a brandy, remembering to thank him. It is not my Watson that has upset me and I want to at least try not to take anything out on him, however spiteful I might currently feel like being.

He hands me a glass and then takes to his seat, opposite mine. "Now, I have heard Lestrade's side of the story, but if you have taught me anything at all, it is that there are always two sides to every tale. What happened, Holmes? I want to understand."

What will he think? Is he likely to side with Beth and her new friend? I hastily swallow the brandy in a single gulp and ask for another.

"You don't drink."

"I need it, Watson!"

He shakes his head. "You most certainly do not need it - just as you never had a need for cocaine or morphine. Enough nonsense - this is childish."

"Please, I feel ill. Another brandy - please."

He shakes his head. "Drowning yourself with brandy is hardly going to help. You feel unwell because your nerves have been upset - you need to talk it through. I promise to reserve judgement."

With a groan, I lean forward and rub at my forehead, above the bridge of my nose. I was not lying when I told him that I feel ill - my stomach is churning and my head aches.

"Take your time, Holmes."

I nod and take a deep, steadying breath. "Very well. Beth took me to meet an actor that played my part for television, once..."

Watson listens in silence while I tell all, as if I were describing the particulars of a case.

"I can understand your reasons for being upset," says he at last. "But you must realise that attitudes have not changed with the dawn of the 22nd Century - they have changed gradually, over time. Besides which, how was Mr. Brett supposed to know that you and Lestrade are engaged, at a glance, let alone who you are - I should think that he took you both to be... what is the term? Fans! He most likely took you to be fans and simply greeted you as such."

"That is what Lestrade claims."

My friend snorts. "Really, Holmes! I know her better than this! She loves you - nobody else. Besides, from what she has told me about the poor chap whom you have both judged and treated appallingly..."

Whose side is he on?

He wags a finger at me. "It is no good, looking at me like that - you were quite unjust and, surely, you must see that it is so. Poor Beth - and Mr. Brett..."

"Pah!" I snort. "'Poor Mr. Brett', indeed!"

"Yes, poor Mr. Brett," the fellow repeats firmly. "I understand that he succumbed to a broken heart, after spending ten years heavily grieving for his wife - not the sort of thing that one would expect from the sort of a gentleman that you took him to be."

I close my mouth, realising only now that I have been gaping at the fellow. "Oh. Beth failed to mention that. I did ask her what became of him..."

Watson shakes his head. "The point is that you should trust her. Do you honestly think that she would have gone within a hundred miles of the gentleman, if he was the sort to... to... seduce young ladies?"

I cannot meet his gaze. "No. I suppose not."

"I should think not. Now, I suggest that you get dressed, call poor Lestrade and apologise and then return to... wherever and... and whenever it was that you visited Mr. Brett and apologise to him, as well - unless," he continues, with raised finger, when I attempt to protest, "you should like for him to take you to be completely unstable. I very much doubt that you would be pleased, if he were to play your part as a jealous, possessive madman."

"You are quite right, Watson, of course. There is, however, one problem - it was Lestrade who entered the details, not me. All that I know is that we went to a part of Manchester."

He points a finger towards the door of my bedroom. "One thing at a time. First of all, get into your clothes."

Dress, grovel and then grovel again! I am Sherlock Holmes - I do not grovel!


	5. Making Amends

When Lestrade answers her telephone - videophone - I can clearly see that she has been in tears and I feel truly dreadful, knowing that this is my doing - my fault. How can I begin?

"Beth. My dear, dear Beth. I know not... I want to apologise."

She sniffs. "I bet you do."

"I am terribly sorry - truly. I do not believe that I have ever been so very sorry."

"And now you expect me to say it's OK, just forget about it."

I close my eyes tightly and feel a tear of my own attempt to make its escape. "No. I do not expect you to forgive me."

"So... what? You expect me to just walk away?"

"You would have every right to do so."

She snorts impatiently. "Sherlock, love ain't easy. Zed, you don't make it any easier, but walking away won't make life any better - for either of us. Zed! How many times have I got to tell you I love you? Don't you get it? I can't turn round 'n' walk away any more than you can."

I release the breath that I had not been aware of holding, rather shakily.

"You can't keep on going nuts every time someone smiles at me, OK? You have to learn to calm down - this isn't the Victorian era any more and you have to get used to that."

I nod and again begin to apologise.

"Never mind being sorry, Sherlock. I just want you to promise to try to learn 'n' understand the culture differences. OK? At least try not to be so zedding possessive."

"I shall try."

"Thanks. Now, I think we owe someone an apology."

Must I? "I think I should at the very least explain to the gentleman."

"I shall explain," Watson announces. "I can do so gently - something that has never been one of your strengths, Holmes."

In light of my most recent behaviour, I do not suppose that I can possibly argue with that remark. "Very well."

We are just making arrangements when John comes up from the kitchen, to announce that he has made a pot of tea and was wondering whether we would like some lunch. What is the time? After dashing backwards and forwards through time, I have quite lost track.

"I'll come back over, we'll eat and then we'll get the zed back to Manchester," Lestrade decides. "Zed! No wonder I'm hungry - it's nearly two o'clock. If I was working, I'd have come off lunch nearly an hour ago."

I am not feeling hungry at all, but I shall make an effort. In all honesty, I am rather too busy trying to decide upon the words to say to Mr. Brett, when we next meet, for I truly was quite horrid to the chap - in light of the information that Watson has presented me with, unforgivably so.

My Boswell touches my arm lightly, offering me a smile of encouragement when I meet his gaze.

"We shall put it right together," says he, as if the mess that I have made is somehow as much his responsibility as it is mine.

I can only respond with a grateful smile and barely perceptible nod of thanks, for I know not how best to respond to such acts of kindness.

Lunch on my part is all but ignored. I spend most of the time staring into the middle distance, biting my nails or sitting with my eyes closed. Try as they might, neither John nor Watson can persuade me to partake of very much and, eventually, John takes away my plate and gives the scraps to Briar.

"At least the dog is appreciative," the compudroid sniffs as our setter eagerly wags his tail and holds up a paw as a plea for more.

"Forgive me, John; I have no appetite."

He snorts and shrugs his shoulders. "Well, if you wish to starve yourself, there is little that I can do about it."

"Really, John!" my Watson scolds. "There is no need for that - Holmes will eat when everything has been put right."

With that, he promptly pushes aside his empty plate and dabs at his mouth.

"I'm ready, if you guys are," Lestrade announces, also standing.

I stand slowly, feeling less self-assured than I ever have before. Going to call upon a stranger, in order to apologise, leaves me even more nervous than the prospect of being forced to face a deadly serpent.

Beth takes my hand and squeezes it. "You OK?"

Not in the least, but I smile and nod.

"It'll be OK," she promises me.

Watson now touches my shoulder. Are my nerves as plain to see as all that? Well, there is no time for doubts or nerves now - it is time to be on our way.

Unsurprisingly, Mr. Brett and his colleague (Mr. Burke) are not pleased to see us. As a matter of interest, it is the friend that would appear to be the most upset - just as Watson would be, had I been wronged.

My Boswell takes Brett by the arm and the two walk away, their heads close together, as they hold what would appear to be a conspiratorial chat.

With our friends gone, Burke approaches me with a steel glare in his eyes. It would appear that he should like to give me two pennyworth of his thoughts on the matter of my insulting his friend.

"My dear Mr. Burke," I begin with my most charming of smiles. "As you see, I have returned to apologise..."

He is not having any of it. "Give me one good reason not to have you forcibly removed from the set," he growls. "How dare you come back!"

I spread my hands before me. "But how else could I apologise?"

"You've done enough."

"I realise that I have done wrong; I am sorry."

"So you left apologising to your friend," he retorts.

I stare back at him, finding myself to be quite at a loss. "Watson felt that he should explain a few things, before I say my piece - apologies have never been a strength of mine."

"After the way that you behaved earlier, I don't know why he'd want anything to do with you," says he. "To think some of our critics say that Jeremy plays you far too brusque and rude! Why, they should meet you, before judging the actors."

"I was upset," I attempt to defend myself. "When he embraced my fiancée, I became..."

He nods. "Jealous."

"I was going to say 'protective'."

He gives a snort of sarcastic laughter. "Yes, I daresay you would."

"Truly, Burke, I did not mean any slight - I did not mean any harm at all."

He shrugs. "It isn't me that you need to apologise to."

"Balderdash!" I snap back at him. "I know well enough how easily one can be hurt on the behalf of a friend; my apology is owed to you both."

He considers my words and then nods. "In that case, I'll forgive you as long as Jeremy does."

Fortunately, Mr. Brett proves to be of a forgiving nature. He listens to my apology in silence and then smiles and pats my arm, insisting that it is of no consequence. His friend offers me a smile in turn, though I suspect that he is still not particularly pleased with me.

"I find it difficult to comprehend that you're here," he confesses, after a moment or two of silence. "I find it the hardest to picture you outside of the Victorian era - away from the gaslight, fog... horses..."

Watson nods. "It took us a time to come to terms with it, if I am honest."

"We could show you," I propose, with my usual spontaneity. "If it might help you to understand - we could first show you the 22nd Century and then go back to the 19th Century."

"Sherlock..."

I silence Beth with a dismissive wave of the hand. "What do you think, Mr. Brett?"

He looks doubtful. "I have researched the 19th Century... it seems to me that it was a horrible time."

"Nonsense!" I explode.

Watson touches my arm and leans in, close to my ear. "Rose-tinted spectacles, Holmes - you of all people should know all about those and be careful."

"Pah! Nothing of the sort! It was a time of industry - of morality, integrity, as well as ingenuity. It was a time of..."

"Injustice, widespread poverty and horrible illnesses," says Brett, quietly. If he is hoping that I will not have heard him, he is to be disappointed.

I pierce the gentleman with a glare. "It was not as bad as all that. Come - I shall show you. If you come as you are, we might even have some fun - do you enjoy little jokes?"

It would appear that he does, for he brightens instantly and turns to his colleague. "We could... vanish for a little while - if I've warned Granada that they should look after us once, I've told them a hundred times! Yes - let's give them a scare! It might teach them a lesson."

"You won't be missed," Lestrade warns them. "We'll have to drop you back at the moment we left with you, or else things can go wrong."

Burke looks decidedly unsure. "What sort of things?"

"Nothing will go wrong," I insist impatiently. "We shall return you to the correct moment. Now, do come along - this is the opportunity of a lifetime, gentlemen!"

Brett would appear to be considering it - perhaps he is an adventurous sort. "We shan't stay for long, David."

I spread my hands wide. "I assure you that no harm can come to you - we shall look after you - and anything that could happen will be undone the very moment you return to your own time. It shall be as if you had never left, I promise you."

"Come along, David," Brett all but begs his friend. "If we don't like it, we'll come home. What can go wrong? Besides, once we come back, we'll show our friends here the sets. Why should Holmes have all the fun?"

What can I possibly learn or gain from that? Well, I shall agree never the less, if it will sway them.


	6. Back to the Future

Naturally, our first port of call is Baker Street. Brett immediately sits on the floor, cross legged, to greet and play with Briar. Then, when the dog follows John down to the kitchen, the irksome actor explores as if he owns the place, which amuses my Boswell as he feels that the fellow is behaving much as I would, in a stranger's home. Utter piffling nonsense!

John makes tea (and attempts to persuade me to eat something), while Watson shows Burke our computer and other such devices. I must confess that I have some reservations - should we encourage them to play with the Internet?

When the refreshments are ready, we sit down together in the sitting room, Brett and Burke taking the settee, John a dining chair from the table and Watson and I our armchairs. Lestrade would appear to be content with sitting upon the arm of my chair and leaning at my shoulder.

The compudroid pours the tea and passes around the biscuits, which I partake of somewhat impatiently. I am beginning to feel hungry, but I want to call on New Scotland Yard - we could have some fun with Grayson!

"Chemistry sets have... evolved, haven't they?" Brett remarks as he casts his curious gaze towards my latest experiment. "What's the screen for? Watching TV, while you work?"

"Leave it alone," I growl at him, when he moves as if to stand. "I have been working on that all night."

"You promised me that you would not!" John scolds. "Holmes! Must I send you off to bed, like a small child, before I go and charge? Really! You are most certainly old enough to know better."

I can feel my ears becoming hot. Why must he talk to me in such a way, when we have guests?

Brett sets aside his teacup as he begins to laugh uncontrollably, tears of mirth streaming down his face.

"It is most certainly not amusing."

It would appear that I am the only one that is unable to find anything remotely funny about the situation, because even the dog looks as if he is grinning, while everyone else is all but falling about.

"Jeremy's laughter always has been contagious," Burke gasps at last, in a manner that sounds almost apologetic.

I simply sniff and turn away - I do not enjoy being laughed at. Brett is fortunate that he is a guest in my house, though I could always throw the chap out...

"What's this?" I hear Brett's voice ask suddenly, causing me to slowly turn my head. What is he doing now?

The bothersome fellow has found the instrument that Lestrade bought for me as a replacement for my original violin and is holding it up with an expression of curiosity upon his face.

"It is a keytar," I tell him. "An electronic musical instrument."

He turns his gaze upon me, one eyebrow raised. "Do you play this? I thought you had a violin!"

"He plays both," Beth tells him, on my behalf. "He's a musical genius - show 'em, Sherlock."

Must I?

"Go on," she encourages. "Please?"

With a sigh of exasperation, I set aside my now empty teacup in order to take up the instrument and play a few notes. One of the things in the favour of the keytar is that it never is in need of tuning - all that it will ever require is the occasional change of batteries.

As inspiration strikes, I go through a short repertoire of songs - some simple, others more advanced and all from quite a variety of eras.

Brett's eyes light up, quite suddenly. "I recognise that - it only came out a few years ago. ...In our time..."

I stop playing to meet his gaze. He has slowly sank down into a chair and looks a little faint.

"Are you all right?" I ask of him, because he does not look it.

He nods and offers me an embarrassed smile. "Oh, I'm just trying to grasp it - what's modern and current to David and I is old hat to you."

I chuckle. "Not quite. What I have always considered to be new - telephones, the flicks and so on - is far from new to you. The idea of being able to watch a film at home - with sound and in colour, no less - would have seemed far fetched to the extreme, in my era. And then there are videophones (only talking to a friend over the 'phone is a long-forgotten memory, these days) - which can be portable and fit into one's pocket - and..."

"Stop!" the fellow gasps, holding up his hands. "Please, it's all too much."

I spread my hands. "And how do you think I felt?"

He considers this and nods. "I see what you mean."

I show them my portable telephone and then get John to call it, so that Brett and Burke can see what it was that I was talking about.

"It seemed strange to me, how easily you've adapted here," Brett remarks. "But I suppose it's only right - you and Watson both embraced every modern convenience in your own era, after all."

"Naturally," Watson nods. "To be a good doctor, one must keep informed - there were new discoveries almost every day, if memory serves me."

"And it was not only medical science that was advancing daily," I add. "At the beginning of my career, it was not common knowledge that fingerprints were unique. There were, of course, advances that I made myself, but there were many others that were being made by scientists and criminologists around the world, that were of benefit to me in my work."

Brett smiles to himself. "Yes. Of course." With that, he clears his throat and straightens his back. "I'm sorry I interrupted you. Please go on with your demonstration, if I haven't completely spoilt it."

I shake my head and set aside the instrument. "I shall entertain you again later, if you would like. I think we should show you some of London, before it gets too late."

After much cajoling - and what seems an age - we make our way out into the street.

"It looks as if someone's taken the wheels off your car, Mr. Holmes," Brett notes as he studies it doubtfully.

"It flies," Watson informs him.

He and Burke immediately step away with a gasp of alarm.

"Oh, really! It is quite safe!" I retort impatiently. I have no time for this! "You are worse than Watson was."

My Boswell frowns at me. "Thank you, Holmes."

"The weather is fine - we will have arrived and parked at our destination within fifteen minutes," I add. "You must not fear."

True to my word, we arrive at New Scotland Yard and park without incident, though Watson is no longer the only one who looks somewhat pale, when we step from the car.

"Now," I rub my hands together. "We shall have some fun, shall we? Let us see just how unobservant the New Scotland Yarders are! Come along with me."

Watson touches my arm. "I think our guests might want a moment or two to themselves," he whispers. "They look somewhat unnerved."

"Very well," I grumble, just as quietly. "Show them around, if you must. Perhaps they will feel better after freshening up and taking some tea - I shall order some and find a quiet table in the canteen."

I wait for the return of Watson and our charges at my preferred table, with John and Beth, while my Boswell gives them a brief tour. I had wanted to begin to play tricks before we were seen together, but perhaps nobody will notice our 'look-alikes' wandering about with us.

"What're you planning?" Beth asks of me. "I know you, Sherlock - you've got something in mind."

John nods. "Mischief."

I ignore them both - all will soon be revealed. Hum! Mischief, indeed! They clearly do not know me as well as they think that they do.

As it turns out, Mr. Brett is eager to have some fun. Dressed as he is, he might be able to pass for me (if he happened upon a chap in need of spectacles) and he would appear to be anxious to find out just how convincing he can be. There is only one way to find out, as far as I can see.

With a smirk, I point the fellow in the direction of Chief Inspector Grayson's office and ask Watson to accompany him.

"Grayson's horrible!" Beth shakes her head with a grimace. "He'll probably just insult you, Jeremy."

His eyes narrow. "Not to worry - I can give as good as I get and it's not my reputation or job at stake. See you later."

I stop him hastily. "On second thought, perhaps you could go and see if there is anything of interest in the archives - Quirke will be there. Go with him, Watson."

Mr. Burke accompanies me somewhat nervously, when I call on Grayson. I pat his arm and suggest that he take to a seat.

"What do you want, Holmes?" the chief inspector demands to know. "You've only just solved the case I gave you, two days ago - you can't be bored already!"

I shrug with my hands. "Why not? Two days is an absolute age! An eternity."

"I don't know how you live with this loony," Grayson says, turning to the chap that he clearly believes to be my Watson. "He'd drive me nuts!"

Burke raises his eyebrows, falling into character with surprising ease. "Holmes is my friend," says he. "Besides, he's not mad - there is method to all that he does; even those things that seem odd."

The chief inspector merely sniggers. "You mean there's a method in his madness? I'm not so sure - I'd say there's a madness in his method!"

I stand and go to the door. "Come, Watson. The chief inspector will be quick enough to call us up, when he requires some help from a 'loony'."

"I think you should think twice, before helping him with anything at all," Burke remarks, as the door closes behind us. "He's very rude!"

"Well, one must make allowances for imbeciles," I respond with a chuckle. "One should not expect too much from them. Now, shall we regroup?"

He gestures for me too lead on. "By all means. I wonder if the chap in charge of the archives recognised that Jeremy wasn't you."

I give another chuckle. "I very much doubt it - Quirke is seldom at work. It appears that he has at least a dozen grandmothers - six of which have sadly passed away, in the time that I have known him, while the others are often unwell. Interestingly, it would seem that nobody has ever queried this with him - I most certainly would have."

When we find Watson and Brett, Quirke is telling them some sort of woeful tale, to which they are listening intently. This actor seems far too kind-hearted to survive in this wicked world and - for the first time since meeting him - I feel protective toward him (possibly even more so than I ever have for Watson or even my fiancée) and I approach his side swiftly.

Quirke stops in mid-sentence and looks from one of us to the other, clearly confused. "Amazing," I hear him whisper.

I greet him with a cold smile. "Mr. Quirke! How is your dear grandmother?"

"Uh... uh... She's OK, thanks, Mr. Holmes, thanks for asking," he stammers. "Are you clones? You look nearly the same, but he's taller 'n' he's got greener eyes. And..."

How dare he call me short! I am exactly six feet tall - very tall, for a Victorian gentleman. Besides, I am taller than Watson.

Brett eyes me carefully. "I am only marginally taller - an inch or so," says he quickly. I suspect that he is trying to make me feel better. It is not going to work.

"Which one o' you's which?" he asks, still looking from one to the other.

"If you spent more time at your post, so that I could find you when I have need of you, you would not need to ask."

Brett pokes me in the ribs with a sharp elbow. "He's been unwell, Holmes."

"An' my gran got rushed into hospital, with her heart - she's OK now, though," he adds, when I open my mouth to speak.

"Which grandmother?" I ask of him, rather sharply.

I am tired of his excuses and complaints! When I have been unwell (a rare occurrence, these days, now that I have grown accustomed to the illnesses of this era) my colleagues were not given all of the details - or any at all. The Yarders only know when I have been taken seriously ill because Beth, John or Watson will tell Grayson as much.

"My dad's mum," he replies promptly.

"I thought you said that she had died." At least twice, as a matter of fact. Strange woman!

"Oh! No. That was Dad's stepmother."

"Ah!" I smile and nod. "Of course. That makes perfect sense."

It does not, however, explain how she could have passed on twice - unless, of course, his father had more than one stepmother. Perhaps I should not try to work it out - he is not my employé, dash it all, and if his superiors are too dim to realise that he is taking advantage, that is their affair. I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies!

"Have you any cold cases of interest?" I ask of the irksome gentleman.

"I think you've seen 'em all," says he, scratching his chin. "Lestrade usually gets copies of 'em sent over to your place when you're hurt or sick. Heh! Wish I could understand you - last thing I'd think about is work, if I was zedding sick."

I am surprised when Brett answers for me. "Some of us need to work - we live for it, relish it, revel in it. If you are unable to enjoy the job that you do, perhaps you should find something that you can enjoy."

"Such as acting?" I ask of him, with a cocked brow.

"Whether you see it as work or not, it is work," he defends himself. "It might not save lives, or... or..."

I touch his arm. "Mr. Brett, do please calm yourself. I was... tormenting you. And I apologise."

He regards me with a surprised expression for some moments and then gives a subtle nod.

"You're an actor?" Quirke stares at the fellow anew. "That mean one of the Watsons is, too? Which one's which?"

I think that it is obvious, but Quirke never has been the sharpest knife in the drawer.

"Mr. Burke, Mr. Brett, meet Mr. Quirke."

Quirke nods to each of them in greeting as I indicate them and then turns to Watson. "I thought you were the real Watson - you're a bit more muscular."

I am short and Watson is muscular. Why could he not find a single compliment for me? I sniff.

"Watson does enjoy sport."

The doctor nods with a bright smile. "I have been trying to encourage the Yard to start a cricket club - amateur, of course - but they are not very interested," he informs our friends. "I wish I could understand it! They have a small football team. Humph! They are not even interested in rugby!"

Poor old Watson. I suppress an amused chuckle. "Well, I think we have taken up enough of Mr. Quirke's time. Come, gentlemen - and Lestrade, of course."

"So what was that about?" Lestrade asks. "What were you trying to prove?"

I smirk and shrug with my hands. "Aside from the fact that Quirke truly is never on hand when he is needed, nothing at all. I just wanted to see the look on his face. Now, I believe we agreed to show Brett and Burke our own era - are you coming? We could stroll along the banks of the Thames."

Brett grimaces. "I'm tired," he confesses. "I've been up since the early hours. What time is it now, David?"

His companion suppresses a yawn. "It must be getting late... I think we left Granada Studios at about four o'clock - we were just about to return from a break."

Brett covers a near-silent yawn of his own and nods. "I can't carry on running about London like this. I need a rest."

Lazy fellow! I snort impatiently. "Really! I have been awake all the night and I am not tired."

Watson takes my arm. "All the same, there is no harm in taking a moment. You did say that we shall return our friends to the very moment from whence they were abducted, so they can stay for as long as they wish, surely?"

Brett brightens considerably. "Do you mean that we can stay here for years and nobody would notice? We won't be missed?"

I would have thought that a 'star' such as he would want to be missed. This fellow has surprised me again!

"How long do you want to stay?"

Brett addresses me with a somewhat cheeky grin. "Long enough for you to learn to call me Jeremy, perhaps. I don't really like formalities amongst friends."

I resist the temptation to raise my eyes skyward. "Forgive me, but I do. In my day..."

"But surely today is your day, now?" Burke protests. "You've embraced the technology easily enough."

How can I explain?

"Holmes and Watson are Victorian," Beth says, coming to my rescue. "Technology's one thing; manners and stuff is different - they were taught that stuff as kids 'n' probably had a lot of it beaten into 'em. You can't expect them to change, just like that."

Brett regards me thoughtfully. "What was your childhood like?" he muses.

I know not whether he is talking to me or himself, but I am going to pretend not to have heard. Perhaps it is high time that our guests partook of a siesta - anything to cease the questioning!

Back to Baker Street we go, to be greeted by an enthusiastic Briar.

John the robot is quick to make up beds for our guests in the sitting room, while I retire to my own bedroom (to study something, I lie - I do not enjoy admitting it, when I am weary).

I accept the compudroid's offer of tea, before taking to my bed, but decline food; I am far too done up to feel hungry now.


	7. Irksome Guests

I awake to loud masculine laughter (most certainly not Watson's), followed by a second fellow's hushing. What the deuce is the time? For how long have I slept?

"Jeremy, do be quiet - Holmes and Watson are probably trying to sleep," Burke's stage-whispering voice scolds.

"Oh, Holmes is probably shut away reading, or something," Brett's voice responds airily. "He never sleeps."

Cheeky blighter! I suppose he thinks that he knows everything.

I pull myself from my bed, inserting my feet into the slippers that I keep beside my bedside cabinet and pulling on my dressing gown. I should very much like to use the lavatory, but that will have to wait for the moment - I cannot possibly be seen to enter the washroom by my guests, for it is not polite.

With care, I enter the sitting room and take a seat in my chair, leaning back and crossing my legs until I am as comfortable as is possible, under the circumstances. This was a perfectly appropriate manner in which to sit, in my day; my predicament should not be obvious and I know that I can wait for at least an hour, as long as I remain quite still and drink nothing.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," Burke offers me a smile. I note that he and his companion have both already changed out of the night clothing that John gave to them.

I give a curt nod. "Good morning."

"I hope I didn't disturb you," Brett says, with the good sense to at least look embarrassed, as he refolds the rugs that have been draped over the back of the settee. I take it that he and Burke have been sharing those. "I got a bit carried away."

I doubt that I would have remained asleep for very much longer anyway, for, even in my current position, I am all too aware of the growing need to ease myself. Perhaps I was a little optimistic when I made the earlier assessment of my predicament and the calculation of just how long I am able to wait. I resist the temptation to fidget - I am a gentleman!

This, of course, is a part of the reason why a well-mannered gentleman should keep a receptacle in a discreet location in one's bedroom - one's guests have no reason to see one enter the washroom if one has an alternative. And, while a guest might guess, a guest would not know (particularly not, should one take something to or from the bedroom, with the pretence of putting it away or getting it out) why one might be seen to be entering or exiting said room. The washroom is a different matter entirely.

"Are you all right, Holmes?" Brett asks. "Have you even heard a word I've said?"

I blink and sniff. "Excuse me. I am not quite awake, just yet. No, you did not really disturb me."

Burke casts a glance at my fingers, which I had not realised that I have been drumming upon the arm of my chair. "Is something wrong?"

Yes! "No. Of course not."

"You don't seem quite yourself," Brett notes.

And I suppose that he sees himself as an expert, having played my part for television. Pah!

"Are you in pain?" Brett now asks of me, his growing concern evident. "Do you want me to get your robot friend up from the kitchen?"

John would know what is amiss in a heartbeat and would most likely scold me for behaving irrationally - in front of our guests. He does not understand the attitudes of my era, regarding such things. I am not being silly, I am being polite - as I have been taught.

"I'll get him," Burke volunteers, standing.

I gesture for him to be seated. "No, no! I am all right. Do sit down."

Both men exchange concerned glances, but do not press the matter. I do believe that they are trying not to annoy me.

After remaining still for as long as I can bear, I realise that I could take some clothes into the washroom and there dress. Our guests cannot know that I still have a perfectly good washstand in my bedroom. Standing as quickly as I dare (with a hasty "excuse me"), I take myself into my room, pluck the first suit that I can lay my hand on from my wardrobe and hastily retrieve a selection of undergarments. I choose not to worry about socks or shoes - I am in a hurry and my slippers will suffice.

As slowly as I can force myself to move (and as normally as possible), I enter the washroom. I am rather proud of myself for managing not to dance from one foot to the other like a small child until the door has been securely locked behind me. Now I can tend to myself - and not a moment too soon!

When I emerge, Brett and Burke gaze at me with expressions of concern and curiosity.

"Forgive me - I felt somewhat self-conscious, sitting about in my nightshirt, in polite company. I felt that I should dress."

"Of course," Burke stammers, still watching me as if he is waiting for me to lose my temper over something. Does he think that I am so very temperamental?

Brett turns to him, shrugs and then turns back to me. "Are we going to visit your own era, today?"

"Well, I miss it," I confess. "And I think - I hope - that my fiancée might better understand me, if she can see with her own eyes where I come from and what it was like."

"I can understand that," Burke says.

His companion nods. "But why do you want us to come along?"

How can I explain? "I do not want you to find it difficult to picture me - and Watson - in our proper atmosphere. We live here now - we have both tried to embrace this era - but we belong in the Victorian era. By the end of our previous lives, we both felt that the world had changed too much to accommodate us; we now live in a world that is almost unrecognisable and if we did not still have one another, I am sure that we would both have gone mad."

Brett nods and pats my arm. "I think I can understand that."

Truly, this chap is much more like Watson than he is me. He does, however, appear to share one or two of my traits - mischief being one of them. Watson goes along with me, but I suspect that Mr. Brett is more the sort to lead others into trouble, rather than follow anyone else.

"Oh, you're awake, Holmes," John says as he enters the room with a tray. "I have brought up some tea and coffee. What would you like for breakfast?"

Only now, I realise that I am famished. "Some toast, please. And two runny eggs. And ham."

"You are hungry!" says he, with a smile.

I nod. "I am starving!" I declare.

He snorts. "That is what happens when you go all day without eating properly. Really, Holmes! You should know better, by now."

"Today is another day and I shall try to be better," I promise him smoothly. "Now, have you asked our guests what it is that they would like? Guests should be fed first, you know."

He sniffs indignantly. "You shall be fed together. Mr. Brett has asked for a fruit salad and Mr. Burke has asked for a full English breakfast - are you sure that you would not like any sausages, or fried onions, tomatoes or mushrooms?"

"Perhaps some mushrooms, onions and tomatoes," I respond. "But no sausages, thank you."

"Why will you not try them?" the robot asks of me. "You might like them."

Hum! I very much doubt it - processed food never has appealed to me.

He sighs and shakes his head before turning to walk away. "Oh!" he turns back again before he has reached the doorway to the landing. "You said that you want ham. Did you mean ham or bacon?"

"Obviously, I meant bacon; that is what ham is called, these days. For goodness sake, John! I have only just awoke!"

He quietly apologises and returns to the kitchen.

"Eggs and bacon - that's your favourite breakfast, isn't it?" Brett asks. "I'm sure Watson talks of it, more than anything else."

I shrug. "It is quick and easy - and tasty and filling. Everything that I need, when I have to go out and know not when I might next have an opportunity to eat."

He considers this and nods slowly.

"Are you sure that you only want fruit for your breakfast?" I ask of him. "Everyone else is going to have something rather the more substantial."

Brett grimaces. "I'm not normally as... slender... as you are. Which means that I have to starve myself, if I want to even resemble Watson's description of you."

"You can eat what ever you like - and as much as you want - here," I promise him. "Even if you were to become quite fat, you would return to your previous state upon returning to your own time."

He had looked as if he might have been about to take offense, to begin with, but he is now nodding thoughtfully. "Do you think your robotic friend would be annoyed, if I change my mind?"

I stand with a smile. "I shall go and explain. I am quite sure that John would prefer that you did not starve yourself."

Burke smiles gratefully at me, while his irksome friend merely raises an eyebrow at me but says nothing. Damned cheek! If he means to imply that I deliberately starve myself, he could not be further from the truth. Not that I intend to let him know what the truth is.

The smell of breakfast cooking soon rouses Watson, who stumbles downstairs, change of clothes in hand, and begins his routine in the washroom. I must confess that I am slightly irked that he found a solution so much faster than I did.

As we settle ourselves at the breakfast table, John prepares to start washing the clothing that we have left off. I stop him, asking that he simply leave the items in the laundry basket and then return to the sitting room.

"Very well, Holmes. Should I go down and fetch up some more tea and coffee?"

"Yes please," I respond with a bright smile. ."But do come back and sit with us."

Once the compudroid has left the room, Watson quietly explains that the fellow has a habit of taking on the role of servant. "It is nice of him to spare Holmes and I so much of the work about the house," he says, "but he is our friend; not a servant."

"I suppose robots have more energy and also more time on their hands," Burke remarks. "I mean, that might be his argument."

"It is," my Boswell confirms. "But he could still easily wear himself out, looking after - and cleaning up behind - Holmes. Mrs. Hudson had a team of servants to assist her and she found it quite tiring enough."

I sniff. "There were two people sharing the sitting room."

"Indeed there was," the doctor responds. "However, my bedroom was always left as I wished to find it."

"As was mine," I snap.

He snorts. "Your room was like the sitting room - an obstacle course!"

I set down the butter laden knife and piece of toast in my hands to gape at him, for once quite lost for words, while Brett roars with laughter and Burke tries to conceal an amused grin.

"I should like to know how you know what my bedroom was like," I growl at last. "I never gave you permission to pry into my affairs. Brett! Do cease your infernal noise!"

The fellow slowly stops, save for the occasional giggle.

"That is better. Thank you. Well, Watson?"

He shrugs, calmly concentrating upon the plate before him without even bothering to meet my gaze for a moment. "I sometimes had to let you in, by way of your bedroom window, if you recollect. And quite an assault course it was - books all over the bed and floor, papers strewn about..."

Thank you, Watson.

Brett attempts to stifle another round of laughter.

"Will you please control yourself?" I snap at him.

He shakes his head and gasps for breath. "I'm sorry. I just... I always thought that you'd be an interesting character to play, but I had no idea that you and Watson could be so funny, when you're together. Ha ha!"

If he does not desist I shall be happy to show him just how 'funny' I can be. Perhaps he might like a little swim in the Thames... Would that amuse him?

Watson places a calming hand upon my arm. I snarl and brush it off - I am in no mood to be placated.

"Jeremy meant no harm," Burke assures me, while his friend offers me a rather nervous-looking smile.

"No doubt, this is all rather exciting," Watson reminds me in a whisper. "Anyone can become high spirited."

Well, I never would. Not like that.

After rather a lazy morning, spent mostly discussing Victorian etiquette, Jeremy and Burke follow Watson and I inside the Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis and we each take a seat.

I am glad that today is Sunday - tomorrow, my Boswell will have to attend his wretched course at St. Barts Hospital, which is now mostly used as a museum and training facility. Tomorrow, he will miss all the fun!

"Lestrade is working, today," Watson reminds me, when I announce that we shall first call for her. "She told us as much before she went home, last night. If you recollect, Holmes, she said that she is on the early shift and would start work at five o'clock. Does her shift finish now? It is only eleven thirty!"

"She will not be missed," I reply airily, because I would rather not admit that I had forgotten. "She will not be gone for more than a split second and I would have thought that she would like some fun, to break up the monotony - if she is not at her desk, we shall return when her shift ends."

I see Burke shake his head from the corner of my eye. He and Brett are becoming far too cheeky! What right do they have to pass their judgements on me?

Beth is surprised to see us. Well, I suppose that I would be too, if a mode of transport were to appear from nowhere, beside my work-desk, while I was absorbed in a task at my computer. But she is not entirely displeased and soon agrees to accompany us on our latest adventure.

"You can't wear trousers, Beth," Brett informs her, as I start Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis up again. "There'd be uproar! The gun, boots and... somewhat revealing top will attract some odd looks, as well."

I cast him a sarcastic glare. "Perhaps you could recommend a good dressmaker, hum? For goodness sake, do you suppose that the thought had not occurred to me?"

"Had it?" he returns cheekily.

"Yes, of course. We shall send Mrs. Hudson out for clothing, naturally."

Burke raises his eyebrows. "We're going to Baker Street? But... won't you be there?"

"No. Watson and I will be on holiday in Cornwall."

"Mrs. Hudson will be dreadfully confused," Watson remarks with a sympathetic shake of his head. "How are we ever going to explain?"

I snort impatiently. "Explain what?"

"Your sudden recovery, for one thing," says he. "I remember the holiday in Cornwall, Holmes - and my reasons for insisting upon it."

"Really, Watson!"

He wags a finger at me. "You have not thought this through."

I shrug. "I am more than capable of..."

"Lying through your teeth at the speed of light?" Brett suggests, with a chuckle.

"Just as well, isn't it?" says Beth. "We might be in trouble, otherwise."

I am beginning to think that Mr. Brett's flippant behaviour might be infectious. God help me! Am I truly expected to put up with this?


	8. A Dramatic Entrance

_**With thanks to my dear Beta, for making such a good job of the proofreading, as always. I hope that I never take you for granted, my dear.**_

 _ **Also with compliments to LA, for her continued support - and to my wife, for never giving up on me.**_

Despite my intentions (or my ability to "lie at the speed of light"), Mrs. Hudson sees us the moment that we appear, as she would seem to have decided to tackle the "obstacle course" that has been left in the sitting room. When we emerge from Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis, she is standing in the middle of the carpet, gasping and gaping like a landed fish and there are signs that she is mere moments away from one of her fits of hysterics.

"But... But..."

Calmly, gently, Watson puts a soothing hand to her shoulder and begins to explain something to her. What he is saying to her I know not, because I am busy sneaking Beth Lestrade - trousers and all - into our washroom. I hope that Watson and I - the other Watson and I - have not left it in a mess befitting our - their - marital status. We never did, did we? Not as far as I can see - thank goodness!

"Zed, Sherlock! I can't stay in here the whole time we're here," she protests.

She is not going to have to. "Just wait there and try not to draw attention to yourself," I hiss as I hastily close the door.

"Sherlock Holmes!" her indignant and angry voice growls through the thick wood behind me, as I charge into my bedroom to riffle through my costume chests.

"Holmes? Do you mind if I smoke?" Mr. Brett's voice enquires from behind me, as he approaches my open door. "The stale tobacco smell is making me frantic."

"It does you no good, you know," I respond without so much as turning my head. If I were to be honest, I would rather he did not.

He sniffs. "It's true when they say that the people who've given up smoking are more virtuous than those that never tried it. Or have you forgotten that you used to smoke like a chimney, yourself?"

"I speak from experience," I reply. "I know that I am healthier now than I ever was in my own era."

"Yes, well, you lived in the middle of a dirty, sooty city - I'd imagine that tobacco smoke was one of the better things that you were breathing, on a daily basis. Anyway, you can't have been that unhealthy or you'd never have lived to a good old age. How old were you? Beyond the average life expectancy of a man of the day, anyway."

He does have a point. This irksome fellow has clearly done his research.

"I thought that Watson told me that he gave both you and your companion something to stop your cravings, anyway, while you were alone with him at New Scotland Yard," I note, hoping to change the subject. "I believe that he said that you both expressed a desire to smoke after the journey there."

He clears his throat and shifts on his feet. "We hadn't smoked the whole time we were with you - I told David that we should politely wait for you to load your pipe or... something. By the time we reached Scotland Yard, I was dying to smoke! David must have been, as well."

Both were somewhat unsettled, as well. Poor chap. I do remember what a craving such as that feels like, without the complication of nerves. "You should have said as much."

"Yes, well..." he approaches my side. "What are you looking for, anyway?"

Ha ha! Here it is!

The gentleman beside me gasps as I pull a dress from the chest and inspect it critically, all thought of tobacco cravings momentarily forgotten. "You can't make Beth wear that - it's cruel! That has to be at least two decades out of date!"

Does he research every damned thing? How does he know that? Well, he has overlooked one thing and I round upon him with a snarl.

"I am a bachelor and this is one of my disguises - I should like to see any other bachelor do better!"

"You do have a point, but..."

"Mr. Brett!" Does he go out of his way to irk and frustrate me? I should at least try not to react. Perhaps then he will become bored and desist. I slam my eyes shut and attempt to calm myself.

"Mr. Brett," I try again. "To make my darling fiancée wear this... indignity... for any length of time was never my intention. I simply feel that a dress of any sort would be better than no dress at all - she can at least leave the house and purchase which ever lady things that she might find appropriate - with the help of Mrs. Hudson, of course."

He nods with just a twitch of an eyebrow, which informs me that he still is unsure that he approves.

"You see that I am not being cruel - not intentionally. Besides, any that glimpse her will most likely think that she is merely very poor - more than likely, they will think that she is a relative of our housekeeper and pay her no further thought. It is better than permitting her to run the risk of being arrested. Or perhaps you disagree? Hum?"

He merely shrugs and takes his (silver) cigarette case from his pocket. It looks rather too expensive to be a prop and I am tempted to ask his permission to inspect it.

"I did notice that you referred to your fiancée as your 'darling'," he remarks, while he calmly inserts a cigarette into his mouth and lights it, before offering me one.

"No, thank you. Well, what do you expect me to call her? My 'little woman'? Beth is one of the two best things that ever happened to me - in two lifetimes - and I would never..."

It is now that I notice that he is shaking with suppressed laughter. "Really, Brett! What is it now?"

He shrugs his shoulders and takes his cigarette from his mouth to make use of the ashtray on my bedside cabinet. "Oh, I'm sorry. It just seems so strange, hearing you talk of anyone like that."

I spread my hands before me. "Do you suppose that I could go through an entire lifetime of loneliness and regret - and still remain unchanged?"

His eyes soften and he nods. "I see what you mean. I'm sorry, Holmes. I suppose I forget that you've already seen one lifetime and that you must have learnt a lot. I also forget, I think, your wisdom."

Well, he is at least man enough to apologise. I touch his arm. "Quite all right - really. Now, I shall just call Mrs. Hudson and get her to help Beth into this dress."

"If you like," says he. "I still think that it's cruel."

Give me strength! "Then perhaps you can provide something better, hum?"

He grumbles and looks away. "Well, no."

"I thought not. Now, I suggest that you go and enjoy your smoke, before you go completely mad, and leave me to my own affairs before you drive me completely mad. Thank you."

Beth is still fully dressed in her uniform and invites me to step inside of the washroom with her, when I knock upon the door. She is also doubtful about my choice of clothing for her, but not due to changing fashions.

"It looks like a zedding tent! Call this thing practical? Zed! I can't knock a door in, with this thing tripping me! How the zed am I gonna chase criminals? How the zed am I meant to fight?"

Ladies are not supposed to fight. And I tell her so.

"Zed! Great!"

"Ladies are not supposed to shout obscenities, either. Really, Beth!"

"Really, Sherlock," she retorts, mimicking both my tone and accent, before becoming her angry, near-hyperventilating, self once more. "I tell you this zedding circus tent ain't practical - how're you even s'posed to go to the bathroom, wearing this thing? Look at it!"

How the deuce should I know? I would never have thought to ask such an impertinent question and I would certainly never have attempted to do so, preferring instead to go home (or to a bolt-hole) and to change my clothing first.

"Mind if I ask Mrs. Hudson? I'm gonna have to know how to manage, if I have to wear these horrible things."

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose against a building headache - no doubt brought on by antics of Mr. Brett and my 'lovely' fiancée. Perhaps this was not a good idea.

"You OK?"

"No," I answer honestly, before artfully changing the subject. "Please do bear in mind that my housekeeper was always a respectable lady and remember to be polite. If you must, remind her that you are from the future - show her your uniform and gun, if you must - but do try to refrain from swearing, using coarse language generally or otherwise scandalising the poor woman - please do consider the example that Watson and I have always set."

"Huh! You swear."

I never used to swear as much as she sometimes makes me want to! Mind you, I still do not swear nearly as much as she can make me want to.

"I have never done so in front of Mrs. Hudson." As far as I recall.

She narrows her eyes at me thoughtfully.

"I would never have even considered swearing in your presence, either, were it not for two points - the first being that the worst of the things that I might say, in a moment of weakness, are now so very ancient and out of use that they are considered to be mild at best. The second is that your language is coarse enough to make Watson blush."

She wrinkles her nose at me. "Fine. I'll watch my language."

"Splendid! Thank you. See if you can charm our housekeeper, then. I should quite like for you to make a sterling impression."

"Why? She's not your mom. Is she?"

I raise an eyebrow at the impertinent question. "No, she is most certainly not my mother. She is, however, more like a mother to me than my own mother ever was." So there. Make of that what you will, Miss Lestrade.

Upon exiting the washroom, I find Brett and Burke seated opposite one another (in the armchairs belonging to Watson and I), happily smoking cigarettes. Watson, I notice, is sitting beside the open window.

I call for Mrs. Hudson, direct her to assist the young lady in the washroom and then take to Watson's side. The tobacco smoke is causing my eyes to sting and prickle - I am glad of the (arguably) fresh air, from the window (even if it is chill, as London air usually is in March, be the year 1897 or 2107) - and I dab at my eyes as I recline there.

"It is difficult to believe that we would both smoke that stuff so profusely," observes my Boswell, somewhat gruffly.

I must agree. "Brett is still correct, you know; those who live in glass houses ought not to throw stones."

He shakes his head. "I know. I simply wish that they would use the craving suppressant that I prescribed for them - it would do them much more good."

What can I say? I shrug. "I never would have; you know how I am, where stimulants are concerned - caffeine, tobacco, cocaine... The more that I could consume, the better and faster that I could work."

"Piffle!" snorts my dear friend. "You do not need any of that rubbish - what you do need is this: regular, healthy meals and a bare minimum of six hours of sleep per night - every night. If you would only permit yourself to keep to a routine, you would find little need for artificial stimulants - or sleep-inducing medication, come to that."

Never attempt to argue with a doctor over medical matters. I really should know better, by now.

"Are you all right?" he asks of me with concern, as I rub at my forehead, having closed my eyes.

I meet his gaze hastily as I lower my hand. "Yes."

"Mr. Brett was also quite right when he spoke of the horrible ailments that were rife - no, do not laugh! I myself could have died of enteric fever, before I had had an opportunity to ever have met you."

This reminder serves to sober me. I ensure that our actor friends are absorbed in their own conversation before choosing to voice my thoughts. "I am truly glad that you survived. I must confess that you have always done me a power of good."

"What I mean, Holmes, is that we must all have a care."

I shrug my shoulders. "I doubt that very much misfortune can befall us, provided that we stay together - and as long as we stay away from places that are likely areas for sickness to thrive therein. Besides, should anything go wrong, we need only return to the moment from whence we left."

"All the same, careful we must be," argues my Boswell. "I imagine that you and I should be all right, provided that we take no unnecessary risks, having lived through this era once before; however, Brett, Burke and Miss Lestrade will have little or no resistance to anything that will have been eradicated or become scarce by the time of their births."

I had not thought about that. I almost wish that John were here, though I know that he would be neither welcomed nor made comfortable - the people of Victorian London can be suspicious enough of foreign visitors and immigrants of their own race (I observe no difference between a black or white man - we are all of the human race, are we not?). Besides, there is insufficient electricity on hand for him to recharge by. At home our robotic friend must remain.

"Holmes?"

I blink. I then realise that he has been talking to me about sleeping arrangements. Ah. Yes.

"Well," I clear my throat and rub my hands together as I consider the matter. "We are going to have to call on brother Mycroft, or else we shall have no funds; I am sure that he would be willing to provide beds for Brett and Burke."

"Jolly good," says he. "But what of Beth?"

"Do you think she could take your bed?" I ask of him. "You could take my bed and I shall sleep on the settee. Or, I suppose that we could share my room - it would certainly be warmer... No?"

He is shaking his head. "No. I might have a better idea. Perhaps Lestrade could stay with her own family. We know well enough that Inspector Lestrade and his wife would take good care of her."

I feel my eyes widen at the suggestion. I had not even contemplated introducing my lovely fiancée to her ancestor - what will he think? Is he likely to be pleased? Upset? Angry? What am I to say to him?


	9. Getting Organised

Our first port of call is to visit Mycroft, in the hope of finding charity. I present my card at the door of the Diogenes Club, but am denied entry on account of having a woman with me.

"This is a matter of some import," I tell the irksome fellow on the door quietly. "Now, you can either permit me to speak with Mycroft without a fuss, or I shall... create a scene as only a younger brother can." I say this when I remember Miss Lestrade - a gentleman should never speak of 'raising Hell' whilst he is in the company of a young lady (what am I thinking of?). "What will it be?"

My reputation is not lost on the imbecile, for he admits us all without further argument. Ha! I remind my companions to be silent with a finger to my lips and we then proceed.

My elder brother is at the window with his back to us, when we enter his private room. I quietly clear my throat, expecting him to acknowledge our presence in some way.

"I was told that you had gone to Cornwall, Sherlock."

"And that is where Watson and I are," I reply, knowing that my voice is bound to sound different to him. "But we are also here. I find myself to be in need of your help, brother mine."

He turns sharply from the window at my words.

"What have you done, Sherlock?"

I smirk, discovering myself to be somewhat amused by his inability to deduce it.

"When I last saw you, you looked positively sickly," he now remarks. "Now you look at least half your age. I say again: what have you done?"

Only half my age! Dear me! How little he knows! I chuckle and then dissolve into a fit of helpless laughter.

Watson steps forward. "Holmes is laughing because," he casts me a doubtful expression, "I think it is because the situation is far from simple. We are much older than we appear..."

"And David and I haven't actually been born, yet," Brett adds brightly, as if he expects that revelation to be helpful. He is as optimistic as my Boswell.

Mycroft scrabbles for his chair and collapses into it, before turning his eyes in the direction of the door for a moment (no doubt contemplating calling for assistance). "Not born yet? You look older than my brother."

"Before anyone tries to explain, I should make introductions. Mycroft, you already know Doctor Watson. To his left are two very skilled thespians - Jeremy Brett and David Burke. The young lady is Miss Beth Lestrade."

He stiffens, clearly noticing Beth (unsurprisingly, as she is the shortest, is dressed in black and is standing to the back of the group) for the first time.

"Sherlock! This is a gentleman's club - women are strictly forbidden. You know that - how dare you! I shall ban you, henceforth."

"Dear me," I chuckle. "I shall be confused - I am to be banned for an offense which I have not committed yet."

"You are talking absolute piffle, Sherlock! You are standing here with her right now."

I give another peal of laughter. "I am, at this very moment, in Cornwall - upon the insistence of two doctors; one of whom is Watson. Watson is with me; no doubt trying to keep me in a relaxed state and out of mischief, if memory serves me."

My brother merely snorts - as, I notice, does Mr. Brett.

"But you are also here."

"Look, Sherlock, let me explain," Beth volunteers, stepping forward to rest a hand upon my arm.

Mycroft arches an eyebrow at her, but if she sees him she cares not a jot.

"Mycroft - Mr. Holmes - I'm Inspector Beth Lestrade. I'm descended from an acquaintance of Sherlock's. You've heard of Inspector G. Lestrade, right?"

His second eyebrow joins the first.

"Well, anyway, I was - or I will be - born in August, 2078. Being a Lestrade, I inherited Watson's journals and I knew Holmes - and Watson - pretty well, through reading 'em. Cutting a long story short, I needed your brother's help, so I had him and Watson brought back to life as young men."

He shakes his head, clearly trying to make sense of this information. "That explains almost everything," says he after a moment of silent contemplation.

"Really? What did I miss?" she asks of him.

He gives a long-suffering sigh. "How you come to be here."

"Ah! That is my doing," I announce with a smile. "I stole a time machine from a criminal - would you care to see it?"

"No," he snaps. "I should like some peace. What do you want, Sherlock?"

I chuckle nervously, spreading my hands in an appeal. "A loan. My other self would appear to have left no funds in the house and my credit card is not going to be worth the plastic that it is made from."

I see him mouth the words 'plastic' and 'credit card', as he considers my words. "Has your 'other self' neglected to pay the rent?"

"No. He has taken all of the best clothing - as has Watson (the other Watson). Our companions also have only the clothes which they are standing up in. And we shall want money for food."

Mycroft glances at each member of the company, one to another and back again. "I am not made of money, Sherlock."

"I have no doubt that we can pay you back," I reply. "My faculties remain unchanged - should the right client call, I could pay you on my own, with funds left to spare."

He shrugs and tosses me his cheque-book. "Do not spend more than you must - my funds are not without limits."

I remember those very words in written form from him, when I requested an increase in funds during my hiatus. Mycroft has always been mean with his money.

"There is one more request, brother mine," I add, as if by some after-thought. "Five of us cannot comfortably fit at Baker Street - there are only two narrow beds."

"You should not have a young lady staying in a house with four unmarried men, anyhow," he reminds me.

"Actually," begins Burke.

"David and I are happily married," Brett pipes up indignantly, at the same moment.

Mycroft addresses them with a nod. "Thank you, then, for leaving your wives at home."

"I was going to ask, brother mine, if you could permit Brett and Burke to stay with you. I can assure you that they make far better lodgers than I ever have."

He frowns at me for a long moment and then nods. "Very well. But I shall expect to be left alone, without disturbance, and without having my affairs pried into."

"We're actors, not detectives or spies," grumbles Burke.

"You might want to have a chat with them, Mycroft," I tell him, as we prepare to take our leave. "Both have some diverting stories to tell, without a doubt."

"At which time will you be expecting us?" Burke asks of him.

"I dine at eight. You may join me, but you must inform me of your intentions first, so that enough food can be prepared. Today is Thursday, so dinner will be roast beef."

"Thank you, Mycroft, but we shall be dining together - we shall no doubt still have plans to make."

He frowns at me. "I think I should like to be privy to these plans, if my house and my funds are to be at your disposal. You shall be expected at half past seven - no excuses. See that you are on time."

"How I have missed you, Mycroft." Escapes me entirely. He is too lazy to join us, so he expects us to fit our affairs around his.

"And, Sherlock," he calls to me, diverting my attention away from my hat, coat, muffler and gloves (my other self has been good enough to leave some warm clothing, at least).

"Yes?"

"Leave your new toy behind, if you please."

I do not please. I plan to show Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis to him and tell him of how I came to possess it - I have not had the opportunity to tell of my daring theft, yet.

"Very well," I reply with a smile.

We escort Beth back to Baker Street and then we gentlemen set out together for my favoured tailors. I have missed them!

I select a dinner suit and three daytime outfits - all of which are ready made and require only slight alterations. Watson, Brett and Burke then follow my lead.

"When will these be ready?" I enquire.

"I shall have them delivered to you tomorrow, in the afternoon, Mr. Holmes."

I tut quietly, shaking my head. "Could you not have the dinner suits, at the very least, ready before this evening? We shall have need of them."

The assistant nods. "We can do that, Mr. Holmes. Will you want any of the day suits earlier, if we are to prioritise some of the items?"

"One from each order would certainly be appreciated," I reply. "Thank you."

From here, we purchase fresh collars, undergarments, socks, hats (to match the suits) and I insist that Brett and Burke should at least consider purchasing a new coat, muffler and pair of gloves - both look cold and I doubt that their costumes are as warm as the Victorian articles which they are designed to resemble.

At last, we begin the long trudge back to Baker Street. The weather is still cold and we hurry homeward as quickly as can be managed.

"Ugh," Brett mutters, thrusting his hands into his pockets with a shudder, as he steps over something and turns to ensure that Watson and I have seen it. "These streets are filthy."

At least they are not dotted with spittle, discarded chewing gum and half-chewed sweets.

"Don't walk with your hands in your pockets, then," warns his companion. "If you slip or trip on something, you won't be able to stretch your hands out in front of you."

"Very sound advice, Mr. Burke. You would do well to listen, Brett."

Burke draws closer to his friend and slips an arm through his. I decide to follow the example of the men in front of us, drawing closer to Watson and inviting him to put his arm through mine.

"The stench is dreadful," the doctor whispers. "I cannot remember it ever being like this."

"Nor I. I suppose that we were simply accustomed to it."

"Is that the river that I can smell? I thought that it was bad enough, in the 22nd Century."

I shrug. I would rather not dwell upon the miasma. "It is difficult to say." What ever the source is, it is putrid - enough so to quite sicken me.

Upon reaching Baker Street, I ask Mrs. Hudson for tea and go on pouring four brandies, knowing from experience that that will ease the churning of my stomach and that it should fortify my companions just as much.

As I nurse my drink, I feel a hand at my shoulder.

"You OK?" Beth enquires. "You look white as a zedding sheet."

I take another sip of my restorative drink. "I am unaccustomed to the smells of Victorian London. That the streets were dirty I have not forgotten, but I was never so aware of the stench."

"And I'm supposed to be going out in it again, right after lunch. I don't think I want to."

I suppress a shiver of revulsion. "Yes, we could do with some money for cabs."

"You should've asked your brother."

"It was somewhat of a miracle to get his cheque-book from him; I was hardly going to press my luck any further."

I receive a series of smirks and knowing smiles from my friends, but choose to take no notice.

"If a case presents itself, will you take it?" Brett enquires, changing the subject (slightly).

Before I can respond, both Watson and Beth have assured him that I would not hesitate.

"Provided that it holds interest," I add, nonchalantly.

"We need money," Miss Lestrade reminds me.

I smirk. "Then a case is much more likely to hold interest, is it not?"

Brett squirms slightly. "What I wanted to ask is... what are we - David and I - meant to do, while you work?"

"Hum. I think I should prefer to leave you out of it - you are unfamiliar with Victorian London, its streets, its criminals... You could become lost or get attacked."

He nods, admitting that that would be sensible, but his shoulders droop slightly.

"Did you want to take part?"

He shrugs. "It doesn't matter."

"Mycroft might be able to find you work," I suggest.

"Thank you, but I think I'd rather audition at the local theatre. Are you coming, David?"

I stop them hastily. "Have some lunch and settle down, for goodness sake. We should make some plans. I would rather you did not go out alone, for the reasons I already gave - besides, you could fall foul to a case of mistaken identity; you do look quite like me."

"Oh! You do care," says he, with a lopsided smile. "I'm very touched."

I slam my eyes shut and drum my fingers on the seat upon which I am sitting. "Can we please be serious?"

He immediately wipes the grin from his face.

"Thank you. Now, I understand your frustration - I myself would want to work. However..."

Watson touches my arm. "Perhaps Brett and Burke could work here, Holmes. They could interview clients for us, take messages and so on. It would be as if we were in two places at once."

I turn my attention back to Mr. Brett. "What do you think?" I enquire of him. "Would you know what I would look for, or the questions that I might ask?"

"Put 'em to the test," Beth suggests. "Get them to interview you 'n' decide for yourself."

Brett looks somewhat nervous, but agrees readily enough. Without another word, he directs me out onto the chilly landing, to wait outside of the sitting room door to be called back in. I can hear the cheeky fellow giving orders from the other side of the door.

"Watson, Beth; would you sit over there, at the table? I'll do better if I'm less conscious of being observed. David, take Watson's chair, if you would."

When I enter my sitting room, Brett is standing beside the fireplace; he has his back turned to me and is leaning nonchalantly upon the mantlepiece as if I do not interest him one iota. How dare he!

He turns his eyes upon me in a bored manner, all but orders me to sit down on my settee and then proceeds to take to my chair with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed, as if he were going to sleep.

"State your case," says he.

Where to start? "Mr. Brett, I can assure you that I would never be so impolite."

He opens his eyes to gaze back at me. "Watson's descriptions of you say otherwise."

I hear my Boswell attempt to stifle a snigger at the table. Brett smiles pleasantly at me.

"Watson, did I do it right?" he asks of my friend, deciding not to listen to me at all.

The doctor clears his throat. "Well, you were a little bit brusque."

"A little bit?" I repeat, becoming quite incensed by now. "A little bit? When have I ever behaved like that?"

"When you have been in a temper, when you have been under the weather..." Watson begins to list, helpfully. "Actually, I would say that your behaviour was usually rather like that - you would be curt, impatient, brusque and, on occasion, downright difficult."

I lower my eyes to my lap. "I had no idea that I was so very lucky that you continued to work with me - let alone live with me."

"Well, we both had our tempers," my Boswell replies. "What right had I to protest or complain, when I could be worse than you were? Besides, you could also be very patient and kind - when I was most in need of it, you were very good to me."

I feel my ears turn hot and hastily turn away with a shrug my shoulders, before I again meet Brett's gaze. He is addressing me with a small smile.

"I'll try it again, shall I?" he offers. "Perhaps, if you could play the part of a distressed client, I might find it easier to respond appropriately."

I again step out onto the landing. On this occasion, I concentrate upon thinking of a story, as opposed to listening to what ever might be being said within my sitting room. I also untuck half of my shirt and ruffle my hair, before unfastening my collar and removing a cufflink from one sleeve. What might my double make of that? When I enter, I do so with a stagger, while I puff and wheeze.

This time, the actor's behaviour is much more to my liking (though he still insists upon beginning our interview by standing beside the fireplace with his back to me, when he calls me in. Did I ever do that?).

When I take a seat on the settee, I let my hands and fingers tremble and grasp the arm to my side, as if I were trying to hide it, while I slowly permit my breathing to return to normal.

"You're shivering, I see," Brett notes. "It is indeed cold out. Won't you take some tea, to banish the chill?"

Very good, Mr. Brett! Much better! "Thank you. A cup of tea might be just the thing. I have had a trying morning."

His eyes widen ever so slightly and his eyebrows twitch. "Dear me! Please, tell me all."

"Just a moment," Burke intervenes, handing me my cup of tea, which I discover that he has added a dose of brandy to, upon taking a sip. "Drink this and collect yourself; take your time."

"Thank you."

I can see that Brett is making a study of me. Good. I am tempted to ask him what he can deduce from the mess that I am in, but I would rather not put him off.

"I do believe that you've been manhandled," he announces at length. "And that you've ran here in some haste."

I feign surprise, as if I were one of the particularly dense Scotland Yarders. "Good heavens! How ever did you guess?"

I hear Beth chuckle at the role reversal and gesture impatiently for silence.

Brett smiles, though he looks more relieved than anything. "I never guess. Your clothes are in a state of disarray - and so is your hair. No gentleman would go out in such a state, so you've obviously been in some sort of a struggle. But not a fight, because there isn't a mark on you."

"Incredible," I reply, before I begin to babble, as if I were still suffering with nerves. "You are quite right. I only just escaped by good fortune and I came directly here because I have heard something about you."

"I'm glad that you aren't hurt," says he, patiently. "But I'm afraid you aren't making much sense. From whom have you escaped?"

"Bravo, Mr. Brett! Much better!" I clap my hands. "That was much better."

He gives a long, relieved sigh. "I don't think I can do this."

"Of course you can!" I reply, vehemently. "Come on, we shall try again. Shall we continue from the moment that I interrupted you?"

By the time Mrs. Hudson serves lunch, I have coached Mr. Brett and his friend until they are almost perfect.

"Jeremy won't need a script at all, when we go back to Granada Studios," Burke remarks with a cheerful smile.

"Neither will you," observes Watson. "You are both doing very well."

Which can only be a good thing - a very good thing. Some of the scripts are inaccurate drivel, if anyone would care to know what I think of them. Not all of them, of course; there are others which are incredibly accurate (sometimes, embarrassingly so). On reflection, I think I prefer the inaccuracies over those - I hope that we are not teaching our new friends too much which might be incriminating.


	10. Mr Lestrade

**Many thanks indeed to those who are reading and enjoying this story; you keep me going. Though I have thanked most of you personally, I thank you all again for the many nice reviews.**

 **I must confess that some of the comments from you, KIT-10 (not K-9), confuse me somewhat. I like to keep humour as an undercurrent to my work - even** _ **Time Shifts**_ **had some humour present - but I find it difficult to understand why this story amuses you so much in particular. Naturally, I am very glad that you are enjoying it so very much - I simply wish to understand.**

 **I would also like to thank Ems for her continued support and patience - particularly when I am struggling with influenza and unable to string a coherent sentence together (yet far too stubborn to stop working) - as well as her expertise as my Beta. My thanks must also go to Hatty, for her occasional work as my typist, when I was particularly stubborn. Where would I be without you both?**

The suits arrive as promised while Mrs. Hudson is out with Miss Lestrade. We first try our dinner suits, along with our new cravats. I cannot help but admire myself, for I never had funds enough for such finery, when I was as young as I would appear to be. It becomes me - especially with the fine silk cravat. Beth will find it rather difficult to take her eyes off of me!

When our housekeeper returns with my fiancée, I am dressed in my new day suit (which is much more comfortable than the authentic-by-appearance-only clothing that I was wearing upon arrival. I am not at all fond of fabrics containing nylon or other such man-made materials - they simply do not breathe!).

Beth is also wearing a new dress - a gorgeous dress! - of soft, dove grey fabric that has just a hint of mauve, which brings the violet of her eyes to the fore. Over the dress is a wool coat of a similar shade of grey and her short hair has been fastened beneath a matching hat, to give the appearance of being much longer and pinned in place. She looks absolutely beautiful!

Miss Lestrade blushes under our scrutiny as Mrs. Hudson takes her coat and gloves (I had not even noticed those).

"You don't look as if you're in mourning, now," Burke remarks, causing me to glare fiercely at him.

His friend nods. "That colour suits you - it makes your eyes look purple."

"They... uh... are, kinda," she stammers, self-consciously. "I've got violet eyes. Unusual, huh?"

"Why are you so shy about them? You almost sound ashamed! I could name a few people who would envy you," says Brett, with a smile.

Can he not see that he is bothering her? I perceive a grimace at the words - almost as if they are painful to her - and prepare to step in.

"I can already name a load o' people that envied me, OK?" Beth snaps at the actor, causing him to actually take a step back. "I went to school, for zed's sake! Do you have any idea how mean girls can be, when all they want is for the boys to notice them, when another girl's getting all the attention? And do you have any idea how much worse it gets, when that girl isn't interested and just wants to get on with her studies?"

Brett is holding up his hands and looks rather upset by the unexpected tirade and I find myself feeling - just a little bit - sorry for him.

Hastily, I step closer to touch her shoulder and lean in close to her ear. "Look at his face, Beth. I very much doubt that such matters would have crossed his mind at all, or else he would never have said it."

"I'm sorry," my fiancée all but whispers. "I just... What you said just brought it all back. School wasn't really the best time for me, I guess."

I squeeze her shoulder and address Brett with a reassuring smile. "Well, it was not the best time for me, either, but it did make me what I am. If nothing else, it taught me to defend myself."

There is a nod from the actor, who looks somewhat relieved that Lestrade is calmer. "Yes, I know what you mean, Holmes. School isn't always as much fun as it's made out to be."

I agree and permit myself a small, lightning-quick smile. "Now, before you became upset, I believe that I was admiring my beautiful fiancée. Would you be so good as to twirl for me?"

I hear Watson chuckle but pay him no heed. I want my lovely wife-to-be to know - without the shadow of a doubt - that I think that she is the most beautiful thing in our Solar System.

She blushes, but acquiesces to my request.

"That dress truly does suit you, my dear. Now, do you feel like going visiting? I should like to introduce you to your ancestor."

Beth grimaces and wordlessly casts a glance in the direction of the washroom. She looks as if she is trying to find the words for a suitable excuse.

I nod and pat at her arm. "Of course, you have been walking about London all afternoon; I should think that you shall want to freshen up, take some tea and sit down for a moment. There is no rush."

She thanks me before making her way to the washroom and locking the door behind her. I sincerely hope that she can manage, after all that she said earlier, but I can hardly ask or offer to give her assistance. I could not do so if we were married - particularly not with guests within earshot.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson would appear to have given my dear fiancée all the instruction that she could need, for she manages perfectly well and is much more like her usual self when she returns to my side. Thank goodness for that! It is one less thing for me to fret about.

Following a restorative cup of tea, served with a few sandwiches and cakes, we agree to call upon Inspector G. Lestrade at his home.

I must confess that, though I want to show Miss Lestrade off to her ancestor, I still feel slightly apprehensive - supposing he is less than pleased, when he learns of our engagement? What if he tries to talk her out of it - might he succeed? I am certainly not the best choice and I am all too aware of that.

Beth takes my hand as the five of us trudge together. "You look nervous," she whispers. "This was your idea; I thought you wanted to see your old friend."

I nod. "I do," I reply, just as softly. "But he may not be pleased to see me - or to hear of our engagement."

She chuckles and squeezes my hand. "It'll be OK."

"We are in public, in the wrong era for such open displays of familiarity, Holmes," Watson's voice reminds me, close to my ear.

With a murmured apology, I adopt a less intimate manner with my fiancée, as if she is a client. Surely I have not forgotten how to be aloof! Has she changed me so very much?

By the time that we reach the Lestrades' little house, near to the place of Inspector G. Lestrade's work, we are all quite footsore and weary. It is a longer trudge than I remember and we have all done rather a lot of walking, today. Evening is fast approaching, when my old friend cheerfully greets and admits us.

"What brings you here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he asks cordially, while his wife takes our outdoor clothing. "Not a case, surely?"

I smile at him jovially. "No, not a case. Tell me, do Watson and I look different, to you?"

"Well, yes, now that you come to mention it. Your voices, not so much, but you look... different. Yes. What did you do? Find something to restore your youth? You'll make a fortune!"

I chuckle. "That was rather a good guess, seeing as the truth is much more far fetched. Beth, would you care to tell him your side of the story?"

My fiancée begins by telling him who she is and why she came to restore myself and Watson to life. I then jump in (just a little bit hastily, to keep her from revealing the news of our engagement too quickly) and tell him of the time machine that I have come by.

The old Yarder and his kindly wife are only too pleased to embrace our Miss Lestrade as a member of their family and are both shocked and delighted to hear that she is herself an Inspector of the Yard, in her own era.

As we settle ourselves in the Lestrade Family's parlour, Beth tells her ancestors (and the other members of the small party) a little about herself.

"It's kinda funny. I mean, I feel like I've always known you all - I know Watson 'n' Holmes best, from Watson's journals, but he described you 'n' the other Yardies in a lot o' detail, too. And uh... I've read a lot about you - and your colleagues - Jeremy. I knew quite a lot about you before we met."

I give him a nod of confirmation, for I can vouch for that.

He turns to his friend, seated beside him, with an expression of (somewhat) humble disbelief. "Wow!"

'Wow' indeed. I wonder whether all actors are so well remembered - and, if that is not the case - what it is that makes this actor so special. I really must do some research, when I have the opportunity to do so.

"Would I be right in thinking, then, that that's why you came here? That you wanted to meet me?" Lestrade asks, his brow furrowed as he endeavours to understand.

She shrugs. "I guess so. Sherlock wanted me to experience his own time, so I can understand him better. But, yeah, I wanted to know you, seeing as I had the chance."

He smiles warmly. "I'm glad. I am pleased that I have had a chance to know you. Can I ask, though... You and Mr. Holmes seem to get along quite well. Do you find that easy? I mean, after all, I count him as one of my friends, now, but I found it much easier to take to Doctor Watson."

I do not recall the little man ever calling me his friend before. Could I have forgotten?

"I was always fond of you, as well, Inspector," I admit quietly, as I recall that he was one of the Yarders who died on the job, only a year or two before my retirement. Criminals were becoming bolder, more violent - a routine case had gone wrong. Did he ever know that he was counted amongst my small number of friends?

The man is gazing at me somewhat strangely. "Really? I never thought you cared much about anyone - not even the good doctor, here."

"That is the best protection that I can give to myself or my family and friends," I respond, by way of explanation.

He nods, his eyes down. "Yes. I suppose so."

"Have I done something wrong?"

He meets my gaze and smiles. "Oh! No, it isn't that, Mr. Holmes. I was just thinking that I have never really done anything to deserve your friendship. All I ever do is try to outdo you, after all."

"Well, all that I ever did was to show off, as far as I recall. I do not suppose that it was ever undeserved."

Brett is looking from one of us to the other. "Well, what a melancholic lot we are," he remarks, turning to Beth. "Why don't you tell us something about your time? I'm sure Mr. Lestrade will be interested."

My fiancée squirms ever so slightly. "I think I might be able to do better than that. If Sherlock doesn't mind."

Oh, dear God! What is she going to do?

"You asked earlier, Inspector, whether I find it easy to get on with Sherlock. Well, yes, actually. Let me tell you about it..."

All eyes are on her now. The expectant silence stretches. I should like very much to lock myself away somewhere but, as a guest, I cannot.

"I guess I always thought of Sherlock as my friend," says she, slowly. "I knew what he was like before I met him, so it was easy to get used to him and I just found it easy to like him.

"Then there was this one case, where we found ourselves up against a pretty influential criminal - remember that, Sherlock? He was related to our Prime Minister and he was pretty rich and powerful. He gave us some pretty impressive threats and I was starting to think that the most I could do was get myself fired."

I smile to myself, for she had not let it show it at all.

"Well, just as I was starting to wonder if we should back down, Holmes here stepped forward. The guy had a choice, he said - give himself up or get himself crushed by our Sherlock Holmes. Well, he just laughed, o' course, and said we were the ones who had to make a choice. You know what these people are like. Anyway, Holmes wouldn't back down - 'We stand for justice', he said."

I notice that some of the pairs of eyes are now on me and do my utmost to pay them no heed.

"What happened?" asks Brett, as his eyes bore into me.

Beth smirks. "He says: 'There's no such thing as justice,' and Sherlock stands up really straight, so he's as tall as possible, and says: 'O' course there is! As long as just one man stands for it, it exists'," her expression becomes a little shy. "That's when I realised I love 'im."

This was months - at least - before I gave our relationship any thought at all, for I always believed that companionship was all that I would ever want and felt sure that no woman would be satisfied with that. How patient she was!

Brett is nodding his head. "My wife chose me, as well. I think it should be for the lady to decide."

Mr. Lestrade gapes at us in disbelief. "What's this? You're married?"

"Not yet," Beth tells him with a small smile. "We're engaged. We have been for just over three years, now. He proposed in 2108."

Burke shakes his head. "It still sounds strange to me, when you talk about dates so far into the future as if it's already happened."

"I'm glad you said that," Mr. Lestrade confesses. "Tell me... How do you and your friend come to know Mr. Holmes? I don't think I've met you, before."

"Oh!" he smiles. "We're actors, Jeremy and I. In the 1980s, we play Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson for uh... a production."

"Then you are both from the future, as well."

Brett smiles. "Oh, yes. We came to meet Holmes and Watson because our fan here," he nods to my fiancée, "is a fan. A very kind one, at that."

Beth smiles and reddens slightly. "Well, I grew up watching you. I always wished I could've met you."

"How sweet you are!" says he, before turning to smile at me. "It is little wonder that she has changed you so much."

"You should watch her make an arrest - or, perhaps, find yourself on the receiving end of her fury - you would not say so then," I assure him. "She is like no woman that I have ever encountered before."

My fiancée blushes again. Dare I embarrass her further?

"Do you know, Watson, I first came to realise that this is a lady who needs no protection on my first night in the 22nd Century - I was finding it difficult to sleep, what with the renewed energy of my newly rejuvenated body and the knowledge that I had much to learn and to become accustomed to."

Now all eyes are on me and I realise much too late that I am not going to be able to tell this tale without at least touching upon some humiliation of my own.

"I rose from my bed without a sound and took a walk of the grounds, belonging to the friend with whom I was staying (Sir Evan Hargreaves, who in fact is responsible for both Watson's rejuvenation and my own). It was a somewhat foggy night, so I did not intended to remain outside for long.

"Just as I turned to go back, I saw Miss - Inspector - Lestrade. She had her back to me. Not meaning to startle her, but with my habitual stealth, I crept forward and rested a hand upon her shoulder.

"I expected her to turn to face me. Perhaps I expected some surprise on her part. What I most certainly did not expect was for her to tightly grip my wrist and to throw me over her shoulder, before I had had a chance to react."

Beth is bright red and glaring dangerously at me. "You scared me, you idiot! That's what I do, when I feel someone grab me from behind. What the zed do you expect?"

Mr. Lestrade pats her arm. "Our modern-day women aren't usually as... capable."

"Indeed not," I agree. "But I must confess that I like that capability and self-assurance in you, Beth."

She lowers her eyes somewhat shyly. "I'm a Lestrade. It's in the blood."

"It certainly is," agrees her ancestor with a bright smile.

"Your ring looks expensive, Beth," Mrs. Lestrade cuts in, changing the subject neatly.

"Well, you know Sherlock Holmes - I say I don't want anything too showy, so he gets me the biggest rock you can fit on a finger. He never listens."

Watson gives a chuckle. "Well, that is how Holmes shows affection, you know. Being a man of a stoic disposition, he tends to say things with actions or presents, rather than words."

Thank you, Watson. Why on Earth did he say that? I merely shrug. "Well, I have learnt that one cannot take one's possessions with one. Besides, nobody likes a miser."

Watson flushes. It would appear that he has just realised that he has told our old acquaintance far too much. "Of course."

"You've changed a lot," Mr. Lestrade remarks. It would appear that he has not realised that Watson was in fact implying that I have always been secretly generous.

I shrug. "I have learnt much. With experience comes wisdom."

He smiles and leans back languidly as he crosses his short legs before him. "It certainly does."

"Lestrade, I have a problem," I confess, coming to business at last. "We plan to remain here for a few days, but it would never do for Beth to stay at Baker Street with us. I am a bachelor and Watson a widower."

"Oh! That isn't a problem at all," his wife instantly declares. "George, Beth can stay here, can't she? There is plenty of room."

Beth thanks her gratefully. "But I'd hate to be any trouble."

"You'll be in nobody's way," George (did I ever know his Christian name?) Lestrade is quick to reassure her. "It'll be a nice change for Sylvia - won't it, dearest? - it's usually colleagues of mine, staying here, if anything. Usually men called in, during big cases that need extra pairs of hands."

His descendant grins at him. "That's funny! I've got a couple o' sofa beds - you know, couches that can convert into beds - in my apartment, for colleagues in need of somewhere to crash. London hotels cost a fortune, don't they?"

Her ancestor smirks. "It's nice to know that the old Lestrade hospitality is still as much a tradition as the career choices. I think I might be happier about it when you have a man about the place, though - capable woman or no."

Well, he has always been like that. Much like his descendant (who currently looks rather offended by his last remark), he was always as kind as he was tenacious. Again I wonder whether I ever truly appreciated him, let alone thought to show it. I wonder if it is too late to try to make amends in some way.


	11. Time to Kill

**Again, many thanks for the many reviews. As any writer will tell you, they are always appreciated and enjoyed - as much (I hope) as you enjoy reading the stories. As I cannot respond to guest reviews, I thank James Birdsong and KIT-10 for their reviews in particular. I hope that you continue to enjoy this story.**

After insisting that we stay for tea, Mr. George Lestrade decides upon hailing a cab and accompanying us to Baker Street. That some of my companions are becoming fagged is undeniable, but I am all too aware that I have no ready cash. I wonder how I might come by money - could I purchase a bulk lot of coinage cheaply, if I were to return home to the 22nd Century? That might be better than waiting for a case to land in my lap.

"Let me help you move your bags, Beth," the old Yarder offers, as he bids his wife adieu. "Have you made any plans? Are you staying at Baker Street for dinner, or coming back here?"

The expression on her face speaks of regret. "I'm sorry. I already said that I'd have dinner with Sherlock's brother. But I'd love to have dinner with you tomorrow, if that's OK."

He beams at her. "I'd like that very much. Of course, the more the merrier, if you were to decide to bring everyone with you, but please give us some warning."

She thanks him warmly and he turns to me, as the lady of the house hands us each our outdoor clothing.

I second the thanks of my fiancée with gratitude, but the Lestrades merely smile and Mr. Lestrade simply raises a hand in reply. He then steps out into the street in order to hail a passing cab.

"It will be my pleasure - and the same goes for my wife, I'm sure."

Mrs. Lestrade is quick to confirm this as she follows us out into the street in order to see us into the cab. She is still waving when we turn the corner at the bottom of the road.

Brett chuckles quietly and then gives a roar of laughter when I cast my gaze in his direction - almost deafening his friend, judging by Burke's facial expression.

"What is it now?" I ask impatiently.

He shakes his head, as if attempting to claim that it is nothing, but he is still unable to keep a straight face.

"Mr. Brett, if you are unable to control yourself I shall have no choice but to take you home, lest you find yourself carted away in restraints."

Mr. Lestrade's expression informs me that he should like to know how he has avoided such a scenario for this long, while Mr. Burke silently informs me that I should apologise forthwith.

"If you must know," retorts Brett, "this is all your doing. There you are, sandwiched between Doctor Watson and Miss Lestrade - and towering over both of them and..." he shakes with near-silent laughter "...and all I can... Ha ha! ...all I can think of is what you must have looked like, when you went flying over Beth's shoulder. Ha ha ha!"

Mr. Lestrade smirks at me. "He has got a point, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Maybe you shouldn't have told them that story," is Beth's remark. "I don't know why you did."

I shrug my shoulders and spread my hands before me. "It was to illustrate my point - you have always been more than capable of taking care of yourself."

She gazes at her dress as if to remind me that she might have difficulty in doing so, at the moment (which I myself very much doubt - not that I would not protect her anyway).

I pat her hand and offer her a (somewhat) shy smile when our eyes meet, though I know not quite how to put the way that I am feeling into words (particularly with her ancestor sitting opposite us).

My beautiful fiancée takes my hand and squeezes it as a bright smile lights her face in response, warming my old heart as she bestows her silent affection upon me. Perhaps there is no need for words, after all.

"Travelling by cab is much better than walking everywhere," Burke remarks suddenly, drawing my attention back to the entire group.

Brett nods and attempts to stifle a yawn.

"All right?" his companion enquires, his obvious concern reminding me of my Boswell.

He nods again but says nothing. Hum. He is beginning to look rather fagged; I think I really should try to find some coinage, rather than forcing him to walk all the way to Mycroft's pile of bricks tonight. Watson is in the habit of walking everywhere through choice, due to his dislike of flying transport, but he would appear to be the only one.

Upon our return to Baker Street, Mr. Lestrade accompanies us inside, asking for the cab to wait a moment. While Mrs. Hudson prepares tea, he follows us upstairs to collect Beth's assortment of packages, which were delivered to the house while we were out.

Upon entering the sitting room, he stops short and points at the mode of transport that brought us here. "What the devil is that?"

"This is Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis," I reply enigmatically, as I lean upon it.

"The time machine," Watson adds quietly, from his position at the hearth, where he is coaxing the fire back to life.

The old Yarder nods his understanding and creeps forward cautiously, so as to inspect it. "How do you power it?"

"Oh!" Burke looks to me. "I never thought to ask you that. I assumed it ran on petrol."

Petrol! Ha! How old-fashioned! "It is powered by sunlight. The sides are covered with solar paint. Even while we are indoors - even if the weather was particularly bad and the light very poor - it can continue to recharge until the sun has completely set.

"Amazing!" breathes Mr. Lestrade, as he studies it. "Even science fiction hasn't dared to dream that far, yet. Well, I'd better load up the cab, or the driver might think I've forgotten him."

I remove my jacket and roll up my sleeves. "I shall assist you, inspector."

Despite his obvious fatigue, Brett stands and is quick to offer his own assistance in the loading of the cab. The stubborn fool would probably keep going to the point of collapse! Why can he not just accept that he is tired?

"Brett, do sit down," I order him (but not unkindly). "Mr. Lestrade and I can manage. Perhaps you and Burke will pour the tea, hum? I take mine black; Watson prefers his strong with just a little milk and Lestrade takes hers white. Oh! And I believe that Mr. Lestrade takes his strong, with two sugars."

"Only when the wife knows nothing about it," Mr. G. Lestrade informs us. "I'm surprised that you remember, Mr. Holmes."

Brett chuckles quietly as he pours the tea. "Dear me! A dishonest police inspector!"

G. Lestrade gives him rather a funny look. "I can see why you were asked to play Mr. Holmes - not only do you fit his description physically, your sense of humour is almost as strange as his is!"

Charming. "Lestrade, I could leave you to carry the boxes downstairs by yourself, you know."

Brett snorts. "I don't know why you're taking offence, Holmes - it takes me a lot of trouble and makeup to look as... uh, to look like you."

I bristle for just a moment and then smile. "Well, I apologise. Of course, not everybody can be blessed with my good looks."

"Very funny," returns the actor. "Watson always said that you looked like a big, ugly vulture - I don't look like that!"

"If you say so," I snap in return, ignoring the groans and placating words of my Boswell (this is his doing, after all). "I myself think that you fit the description more than I do."

"Well, you would say that, wouldn't you? Tell me, would you prefer to drink your tea or wear it?"

"Guys," Beth chastises us. "Do you have to? Why can't you just shake hands 'n' try to get along, huh?"

We both simultaneously apologise to my fiancée (Brett does so in a particularly - and annoyingly - suave manner) and then we each address the other with a glare.

"Please?" Beth appeals to us. "I know you're probably both tired 'n' irritable, but how d'you think the rest of us feel? Huh? Think you're the only ones that're worn out, do you?"

Again, I apologise to my lovely wife-to-be and then turn to Mr. Jeremy Brett in order to extend my right hand to him. He shakes it rather solemnly.

"Your hands are cold," I note. "Sit down beside the fire and take your tea. I shall be back before mine has had a chance to cool."

"Oh, where are you going?" Watson asks.

"To get some money," I reply. "I shall be but a moment. Would you care to join me, Mr. Lestrade?"

The little man follows me quietly as I enter Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis and takes the seat that I wave him into somewhat apprehensively.

"How long does it take?" he asks.

"Less time than it takes to blink an eye," I inform him. "We have arrived. Welcome to the 22nd Century, Mr. Lestrade."

I permit the Yarder to watch the cars that fly past the window, while I start up the computer. He then comes to my side in order to watch me operate the device.

"You said we'd only be a moment or two, Mr. Holmes," he reminds me. "It's all very interesting, but I have got a cab at the door, waiting for me."

"Yes," I reply, "but we are going to return to the moment from whence we left. It will be to everyone in London as if we were never gone."

He gasps. "Oh. I see. Yes, I see. Right. Well, that changes things. Um. How did you know that the house was going to be empty?"

"Because I have returned to a time when Watson and I were on holiday. It is a shame that you could not meet our robot, though."

He laughs. "Now you're pulling my leg!"

I gesture towards an electronic photograph frame. "Am I, indeed?"

"That's a picture of a tracking dog, Mr. Holmes. A beauty, but definitely not a robot. Unless it can change form, of course."

"The picture will change in a moment," I tell him without averting my gaze from the screen before me. "I believe that there are some silent video - film - moving picture clips, as well."

He whistles. "This is like some sort of funny dream. I feel as if I've fallen asleep over an H.G. Wells novel, or something. Oh! Yes. Here's a picture of you and Doctor Watson with your robot. He looks strange! All metal, with a human head."

"He thinks like a human."

"Oh. Well, I suppose he would, with a human brain."

I chuckle. "It is a mask - an electronic mask. Let me place this order and I shall show you."

He finds the idea of the electromask fascinating, so I permit him to try one out. "You must find playing at dressing up much easier, now."

'Playing at dressing up', indeed! "To be honest, I only use the elastomask if I want to change my appearance - or the sound of my voice - dramatically. The rest of the time, I use my old techniques - makeup, false hair, a change of posture and so on. Your granddaughter says that I like to keep my hand in, which I suppose is true."

"Why do you still prefer to use your old techniques, if you have technology to make it easier?"

"That is a good question. These things can betray emotional responses - even in John the robot. They will frown, smile - even pale or flush - of their own accord, depending upon the emotions of the wearer. I prefer to maintain a much better level of control at the best of times - imagine trying to act with such an honest face! I had might as well send Watson."

He laughs. "I suppose so. It's a clever bit of technology, though."

I cannot argue with that.

"How long have we got to wait for your parcel?"

"Three and a half hours, approximately. It is coming from Cornwall. It could be quicker than that, if traffic turns out to be lighter than anticipated."

"That's amazing."

Yes, I suppose that it is. It surprises me to realise just how much I have come to take for granted.

"How does a parcel get here, all the way from Cornwall, in a few hours?"

"Flying automatic delivery," I reply. "Actually, three hours is not all that quick. I received a suit from Glasgow in two hours, once. And a top hat from Bath in under half an hour - though I grant that Bath is much nearer."

He shakes his head. "You've taken to the technology like a fish to water!"

"That is not difficult," I retort. "I have always been interested in new technology and ideas. As has Watson, fortunately, or else he would feel rather lost. Oh! While we wait, would you care to see Brett and Burke at work? Their production was recorded for television, such as it was in the 1980s and 1990s."

He looks frightfully confused, but he permits me to find one of the films on the Internet for him to watch never-the-less. These days, they are very much in the public domain, which means that they are on every video sharing application known to man. I select a favourite of mine and take to his side without a word. This will serve to be as good a means to fill one's time as any other.

Lestrade seems to rather enjoy the entertainment. He laughs frequently and says that it is well done. He also appreciates that he has not been made to look a fool. I have to agree - I also am pleased that Watson has been treated with respect.

"Watson and I encountered enough fools, in the course of both his career and mine, for comedic effect. The production team had no reason to pick on you."

"I'm going to have to call on you, when you're back in London," he announces suddenly, after a moment of silent thought. "The other you, I mean. I never took the time to really get to know you and it's about time that I made an effort - I mean, you're far better company than you are usually given credit for. Tell me... If I was going to pay you a social call, what would you like me to bring? And don't say 'a case' - I bring you plenty of those as it is."

I shrug. "Chocolate, wine... I would say cake, but Mrs. Hudson might be a bit upset if you bring your wife's delicious baking. Competition, as it were. John the robot certainly takes it to heart, if he thinks that I prefer somebody else's cooking over his efforts."

"It is kind of you to think of your housekeeper," says he with a smile. "I didn't realise that you had a sweet tooth. Do you like humbugs? I know the doctor usually carries them."

"Yes, he still carries sweets with him, as a rule - bribery for difficult young patients, I believe."

"Probably a good plan. Chocolates, then. Or a bottle. I'll remember. And maybe cakes, as long as I remember a present for Mrs. Hudson."

Perhaps I should not have given him such a list. I cast my eyes to the carpet. "I am sure that anything that you bring will be appreciated, Lestrade. It is, after all, your company that we would value the most."

"You certainly have changed!" says he.

I force a smile and lick my lip in an effort to keep my emotions in check. "I have missed you. More than I ever thought that I would." I am not going to tell him that I did not know just how much I valued his friendship until he was gone - morbidity has never been my way and I still do not like emotional scenes.

He nods. "Yes. I can see that. But, you know, you're always welcome to call by. Now that you can."

"Thank you."

He gives a sigh. "What shall we do now? We've still got a two hour wait, thereabouts."

We spend the remaining time playing chess and chatting. I suspect that I am helping him to see the approachable side of me, as he has never seen it before, along with information on how best to draw it out. Perhaps, when he next sees the other me, he will be more at ease with me. I hope so.


	12. Lestrade's Words of Wisdom

Mr. Lestrade is deeply interested in Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis. I have already told him the story of how I came by it (he does not like the thought of my stealing it from beneath the very nose of a dangerous criminal, however).

"Really, Lestrade! The criminal from whom I... acquired it... was going to use it to pillage and plunder - once he had used it to ensure that I was forever out of his way, naturally. Do you mean to say that I should have permitted him to keep it?"

He frowns and breathes a weary sigh. "Of course not, Mr. Holmes. I have to ask, though... Did you take the blueprints, as well?"

Up until now, I have really been feeling rather proud of myself. I had given not a thought to "Blueprints?"

He huffs impatiently and folds his arms, much like his descendent. "Yes, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the blueprints - you know, to stop this dangerous criminal from making another one."

"No," I confess, suddenly feeling quite sick. "I did not. I was rather too busy making my escape."

"Well done, Mr. Holmes, you have probably surpassed yourself. For such a clever man, you can be incredibly stupid!"

I stare at him in disbelief. Never before have I been so abused by this little man.

"Don't you dare look at me like that!" he snaps. "Do you realise what you have quite probably brought on yourself and your friends? If you get Beth killed I'll..."

I meet his gaze and take his hand earnestly. "If anything happens to Beth through my failings - misjudgement, oversight, inability to act quickly enough... anything at all - I would never forgive myself. I would see her hate me first."

For a moment, he stares back at me, shocked by this revelation, but then he calms himself.

"Please, Mr. Holmes, just keep safe. As you are already aware, the best way to keep those that you care about safe is to protect yourself. See that this enemy - whom-so-ever it is that wants to be rid of you - can never hurt you."

I nod and glance away, finding it difficult to face those earnest, dark eyes.

"Are you going to destroy your time machine, once you've had your fun with it?" he now asks.

I gape at him. "Are you mad? No! No, I am most certainly not going to destroy it. How could I offer Mr. Brett and his friends my assistance, knowing that I might be unable to go to them?"

He clears his throat. "God gives us all the means to face our difficulties, Mr. Holmes. Your friends from the 20th Century are no different."

"That is rather callous of you, Inspector. To whom do you turn, when you find yourself to be in need of a friend?"

"Men from my own time, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Well... I cannot argue with that. "All well and good, Mr. George Lestrade. However, who put Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis within my reach? Was that not also God?"

"Perhaps He meant for you to rid the world of it."

I feel my eyes blaze. "Then He knew not what He was doing, which is unthinkable. No, I cannot believe that, Lestrade. He knows well enough what I am - what I would do with it. My nature has always been to interfere."

It is true and he cannot deny it. "Well, if that is how you feel about it, might I give you some advice?"

Not more advice! I begin to protest.

"Please, listen. If you really believe that you're doing what God wants - working for Him, as it were - pray, before you set off, eh? Meditate on Him - ask Him to guide you."

I snort impatiently. "I could not remain still nearly long enough! My brain is still the racing engine that ever it was."

"My point exactly. You can't justify what you do by claiming to be doing God's will if you are not. Either destroy the thing (nice as it is), or use it as God wants you to - it is your choice."

But... "Surely what ever I might decide to do is already a part of His plan? My maker knows me - He has always known me and what my thoughts and actions will be."

"The almighty knows you," repeats Lestrade, thoughtfully. "That's your argument, is it? Well, what about the garroters? Do you suppose that they were not made by God's hand? Do the murders and conmen work for God?"

I lower my gaze. "No."

"I should think not."

Dash it all! I never knew that Lestrade was such a religious man - it is like arguing with a priest!

"What does Doctor Watson think?" he asks. "He always was the voice of reason."

I shrug with a frustrated flourish of my hands. "He sees no harm in time travelling. In all honesty -"

"You should like to know why I do?" he smirks. "That's easy enough. I know you, as well. Sooner or later, you will go too far; I am trying to tell you - now - to think about your actions (and the consequences of them), before you do something that you shouldn't."

"Such as..?"

His dark brows knit as he considers me for a long moment. "Such as killing Moriarty, so as to avoid being forced to leave the doctor to mourn for three years. That sort of thing. I know you, Mr. Holmes - sooner or later..."

I am tempted to admit that I like the thought of killing Moriarty before he and Moran forced my hand. But I know that to kill the man in the past would mean that Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis would never have been built, because Moriarty would never have been cloned by Martin Fenwick. No. Sadly, I have to leave the past as it is.

"Then I promise to consider the consequences of my actions before I act. What more can I do?" I say instead.

He lifts an eyebrow (as his descendent often does - particularly when she says something along the lines of "seriously?") at me. "I have already told you what you can do."

"Yes, well... I would imagine that Beth would like to have you present at our wedding - if you would be so good as to give us your blessing, of course."

"Are you trying to blackmail me?"

I press a hand to my heart. "You wound me, Inspector - deeply. You of all people must surely know how I feel about blackmailers."

He huffs and narrows his eyes at me, but says nothing more.

"That would be my delivery," I note, leaping from my chair. "Mr. Lestrade, I beg of you - not a word of this conversation to anyone else. I promise to keep it in mind - I give you my word. But Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis might prove to be much too valuable to destroy."

He shrugs his shoulders. "I can see that any further discussion would do no good. At least I can say that I've warned you."

I smile brightly, feeling that a heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders. "Yes." With that, I run down the stairs in order to claim my package.

Upon returning to the 19th Century, I assist Lestrade in loading the cab between hasty gulps of tea.

"I have another question about how the time travelling works," says he, when we stop to take another quick sip of our drinks. "How do you always return to the correct moment?"

"Oh, that is very simple. When ever I leave a time which I need to be able to return to - or to return someone to - I docket it on the inbuilt computer, rather like a page marker. The computer can store up to ten page markers at a time."

He looks somewhat impressed. "How many do you have stored at the moment?"

"I have 1984 marked for Brett and Burke's return and 2112 marked for the return of Beth, Watson and myself. When I took you to 2105, I marked the moment from whence we left here, as well. Personally, I see no reason for ten markers, but perhaps five would prove to be too few."

"I suppose it all depends upon what you mean to use it for," says he. I must confess that he is right.

I cannot help but feel some relief, when Mr. Lestrade has left. He might well have promised not to speak of our private discussion, but his presence still made me somewhat nervous.

Having seen the little man off with a wave, I make my way back up the seventeen steps to the sitting room. Mr. Brett is curled upon the settee beside Mr. Burke, a rug about each of them, both either sleeping or resting his eyes. It has indeed been a long day, but we at least have cab fayre now.

I glance at the clock regretfully. I myself should be glad to rest a moment, but we really must dress for dinner and prepare to make our way to Mycroft's. I already miss my car of the 22nd Century - particularly it's speed.

Beth touches my arm. "Don't wake 'em up," she whispers. "They're dead beat, Sherlock."

"How the deuce do you think I feel?" I snap at her in a hiss. "I have not stopped at all."

Only now, I realise just how done up I am. My arms and back ache from carrying boxes about. My legs ache from relentless walking and my head has been aching for quite some time, but I had barely noticed until this moment.

She takes my hand in hers. "How old would you say they were?"

I gaze at Brett and Burke thoughtfully. Each looks quite content and relaxed, sharing my settee like a pair of bookends. "I would say that they were either in their late thirties or early forties - around about the current age of my other self. Why do you ask?"

"Because they aren't," says she. "They're at least ten years older than they look."

I search for signs of it, but they look no older to me than they did when I first set my eyes upon them.

"Also, Jeremy's got a heart condition - that's probably why he gets tired out faster than David. He probably really needs a rest."

"Why did you not say so before?" I demand to know, being careful not to raise my voice. "Come to that, why did he fail to mention it?"

She shrugs. "It didn't feel right to tell you, if he didn't want to. But I thought maybe you should know."

"Of course I should know! I have been expecting far more of the chap than is fair. I had no idea at all - he runs and dives about as if he were a young man."

"Don't say anything about it to him, OK? It'd probably upset the guy. He's had the condition since he had some kind o' fever, as a kid. I guess he's used to it."

My mind has already leapt ahead. "Rheumatic fever?"

"I think so. Why?"

I shake my head. "I suppose that it matters not. I knew someone, once, who had had rheumatic fever as a boy and was left with a heart condition, that is all."

"You won't say anything, will you? It'd be mean. I don't think he'd like the thought of us talking about him behind his back like this."

I touch her arm. "I give you my word that I shall say nothing to him upon the matter until he touches upon the subject. All the same, I do think that Watson should know."

"I guess."

"Does Burke know, do you think?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. I guess I could have a chat with Jeremy - in private. Tell him that I know about it... maybe let him know that I just want to know he'll be OK. Maybe tell him that I think you 'n' Watson need to know about it."

I nod. "That might well be a good idea."

"You keep looking at the clock," she notes.

"Mycroft told us not to be late," I remind her. "The carriages of today are not nearly as fast as the motorcars of tomorrow - let alone your flying motorcars. We have to dress for dinner and get there before seven this evening - we are fast running out of time."

"Let's take your time machine," she suggests. "I know your brother told you not to, but it'll mean that you can get some rest, too. You don't look too good."

I frown at her. "I am all right."

She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, right. Look, Sherlock, you're paler than usual 'n' you keep rubbing at your forehead. Sure you feel OK?"

"Yes," I growl as I lower my hand and clasp it behind my back.

"Seriously? You don't look it."

I am unused to being around cigarette smoke and Mr. Brett was quite right when he said that that was amongst the less harmful things that we are likely to breathe in Victorian London. My nose feels as if it is becoming blocked, not helped by the chill March air.

"That's what I thought. Go on - go lie down. We can make the time up."

With an amused smirk, I submit. "Yes, nanny."

It is after seven when I awake. I still feel weary, but a little better than I did - I suspect that I shall want a lie-in, tomorrow morning.

Burke rubs at his eyes and Brett groans, when I wake them - they will probably want a lie-in, as well. I apologise for being forced to disturb them, naturally, but remind them that we really should ready ourselves for our dinner appointment.

"Yes, of course," Burke mutters with a stifled yawn, while his friend stalks into the washroom with his dinner suit in a disgruntled manner.

I note with gratitude that Beth and Watson have already dressed for dinner, clearly having realised that it would be difficult for everyone to dress at the same moment.

"Mr. Burke, you are welcome to use my bedroom, upstairs," Watson offers kindly. "I have a washstand and everything that you might need."

Our new friend thanks him and permits him to show him upstairs to his room. That leaves me to get ready in my own room, as I have done so many times before. While I freshen up and dress, I take a moment to clear my bed of books and goodness knows what else, for I am no longer accustomed to sleeping in such a mess (John the Robot always tidies my room before I sleep and ensures that I have all that I might need - I am beginning to miss him).

Once we are all ready, I share out the coinage equally. It should be enough.

"By the way, Watson," I offer him a lightning-quick smile. "I believe that I have solved a little mystery. Do you recall, while we were holidaying in the New Forest, that I had to contact our bank, because somebody had had the nerve to hack into my account and order for something to be delivered in London?"

My friend gasps. "Good heavens!"

"You mean you've stolen from yourself," says Beth. "And ruined your holiday."

"Oh, not really. The bank reimbursed the money - I must confess that I did threaten them with bad publicity and a thorough investigation, but what was I to think? I then changed my passwords and that was an end to it. Truth be told, I had forgotten all about it until just now."

Watson chuckles and that sets me bursting into laughter in turn, which would appear to prove infectious.

"We should go," I note as I stand, dabbing tears of mirth from my eyes with a clean handkerchief, while I thrust my coins into the pocket of my overcoat before pulling it on.

"Now, have we got everything? Mr. Burke, have you and Mr. Brett packed your clothes?"

Burke nods with a smile. "Doctor Watson leant us a hand, while you were loading Mr. Lestrade's cab."

"Capital. See that you bring everything. Would you like me to carry anything? Yes, I'll take that. Oh! Brother Mycroft's cheque-book! Well done, Beth. Excellent! No, we must not forget that. Is that everything?"

Eventually, we pile into Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis. We step out into Brother Mycroft's parlour mere seconds later. The clock on the mantlepiece tells us that the time is only half past six and thus we are now early. Ha ha!


End file.
